Two Roads Diverged
by Simon920
Summary: Sometimes a single incident can set the path and direction for the rest of your life. This is how Dick's life might have gone vs. how it has so far.
1. Chapter 1

Title: Two Roads Diverged…Part One

Author: Simon

Characters: Dick and the various people in his life

Rating: PG-13 for violence

Summary: Sometimes a single moment decides the path your life will take. This is a look at that moment going two different ways and the possible differing consequences.

Warnings: none

Disclaimers: These guys aren't mine, they don't belong to me, worst luck, so don't bother me.

Archive: Fine, but if you want it, please ask first.

Feedback: Hell, yes. The Flying Wallenda's are a real high wire act that really was famous for the seven-man pyramid. Two of their members were killed in a fall in 1962, another member was paralyzed. Started back in the 1700's the act continues to this day. Yes, I'm fudging with the dates in this story by having John Grayson attending a performance in 1962, but only by a little.

**Two Roads Diverged…**

**Part One**

**The Beginning**

"That's right, that's exactly the way I told you—get the swing right, get the timing right and the trick will almost turn itself for you." Dick landed lightly on the small platform, his hand automatically going to the rope to steady himself and quickly moved to the side, though he didn't really need any help with his balance. Everyone told him he'd been born with perfect balance—something as rare as genuine perfect pitch and falling simply wasn't part of his make up. A moment later his father was beside him, taking a second to get himself settled then putting his arm around Dick's thin shoulders.

"I'm proud of you, son, I really am—you're hitting tricks your old man can't handle. You nailed it again today and I think next week at the new gig you'll be ready to put it in the act."

Dick ducked his head in pride and surprise then that big grin, the one just like his Dad's broke out. "Really? Next week? Mom said it's okay to throw the quad in front of an audience?"

"…I think it might be fun to surprise her, what do you say?" John Grayson winked and the boy understood; it would be a surprise, a conspiracy between the two men in the family because Mom was always worried he'd get hurt, even though he never did.

The two of them climbed down to the ground, almost forty feet below, or rather John did. Dick grabbed onto the bar of the trapeze, leaned back, pushed off, swinging back and forth a couple of times to build up speed then released, tucked and spun twice before opening up and falling to land on his back in the safety net below, bouncing as if he was on a trampoline several times before rolling himself to the edge and easily flipping himself off, sticking the landing, arms up to acknowledge the applause of the half dozen of so roustabouts milling around and laughing with happiness at the look of pride on his Dad's face.

Walking back to their trailer to get cleaned up, John casually studied his son as he was chattering away and greeting almost everyone they passed by. He was eight years old now and still small for his age, but John had been a late bloomer getting his growth so it didn't matter. He was strong for his age, quick and—this was important—fearless trying new tricks and moves. Oh, sure he had talent; that went without saying, but it was more than that. He loved the life. He loved being part of the act, the crowds, the noise, the moving around and the freedom. He was born to this; it was in his blood.

Dick was a gypsy through and through, even if he was half gage. No question about it; no ifs, ands or buts—Dick was one of the tribe and he was one that would do them all proud. Plus he was smart as a whip to boot—well, maybe that was his mother's doing the way she was always reading to him, taking him to movies and museums in whatever cities they passed through, playing all kinds of music in the trailer or in the truck when they drove from gig to gig. And he was funny, too—he had this sense of humor that could have you on the floor before you knew what hit you and he'd be standing there with his big old blues staring at you, trying to keep a straight face like "Gotcha!"…But of course that was all part of him being so damn smart.

And he was a beauty. Well, sure, boys were supposed to be handsome but Dick was more than that. Dick had the kind of looks that got him noticed wherever they went. He didn't have feminine looks like some pretty boys do, like Rob Lowe or someone like that. Dick was all boy, but he was a beautiful one and that's all there was to it. They could be in a supermarket in Peoria or a gas station in Lansing, spending a couple of hours in a Laundromat in Santa Fe or signing autographs after a show and people would make comments about his eyes or say he ought to be a child model or something. Mary would blush, politely thank them and then laugh about it later. No, no, it wasn't that she didn't know what they had in Dick—God knew they both did—and God knows she'd have loved him to death if he's been born with two heads or no arms, it was just that she knew that none of that stuff about his looks really mattered. Not really. They might even work against him at some point because people could be dumb enough to just see that and miss the rest. And the last thing she wanted was for him to get a swelled head; especially about something he hadn't earned or worked for.

Dick was the whole package, no question. The next ten or fifteen years, watching him grow up was going to be a ride and a half and a hell of a lot of fun.

* * *

**Path A**

Haley's Circus always liked playing in Gotham; Gotham was always a good city for them. The crowds were always big and the audience seemed to appreciate the show a little more than some of the other places they stopped. Tonight should be pretty good for everyone, it was a charity benefit and the fat cats who were filling the VIP seats had paid serious money for the privilege of sitting in the front row. The rest of the house was filled, or so the performers heard, with groups of under-privileged kids—orphans, poor kids there with Big Brother or something, kids in foster care, sick kids from the local hospitals who could be allowed out for a few hours and some groups of boy and girl scouts from the suburbs. The fat cats may be bored with the entertainment and sit on their hands, but all the kids were guaranteed to make the night worthwhile.

This was the kind of show they all liked doing; it would be short because the rich guys wanted to get it over with and get to the fancy dinner/dance afterwards and the kids all needed to be back to wherever they were from early because it was a school night. Well, yes, the performers would be expected to do a meet and greet afterwards, have their pictures taken for the papers and standing with the people who gave the most money to whatever they were raising money for this time, but it was all part of the job and they were all used to it. Even Dick knew the routine and rarely complained. Besides, he knew that tomorrow was an off day and they had those tickets to the fifth game of the World Series Jimmy had gotten through some friend of his who worked at the stadium.

The weather was even cooperating with Indian Summer and clear skies. This would be great.

The Flying Graysons were backstage, Gunter's Tiger Act music was hitting its climax and that meant they had three minutes before their intro. Dick was joking around with Billy the Clown, Mary was clucking over how he'd started to outgrow his new costume already and John was loving the moment. You know how once in a while you have one of those flashes where you see everything with a special clarity and it's like the lights are extra bright or the air is especially clean and sharp? He was having one of those moments and he realized how much he loved his life. He loved his wife and son—God he loved them!—he loved his job and he was just really, really loving his life right now, today, right this minute.

This was as good as it got and if it stayed like this forever, he'd die a happy man.

"You look like the cat that swallowed the canary, Johnny."

"I'm a happy man, Sven, and that's no lie."

Just then their intro started… "Ladies and Gentlemen, if I may direct your attention to the center ring…"

"Gotta go. Dick? C'mon."

But they all knew their jobs and they never missed an entrance or a cue.

They made their entrance with the music, swirled off their satin and velvet capes with the gold trim and rhinestones Mary had finished just last week, climbed up the ladders and started the routine.

First, like always, they started with a couple of simple passes, back and forth to get the rhythm and build suspense, Mary and John passing Dick back and forth while he threw in a flip here and a twisting layout there, hitting the catch solidly the way he always did.

Then the lights changed to heighten the drama as the ringmaster asked for complete silence while Richard, the youngest Flying Grayson—no, the youngest person ever would attempt the quadruple tuck. And he would make his attempt without a net.

Silence, please.

Mary gave John a look he knew he'd have to answer for later, but the boy was ready, and there was no point in holding him back, right? You might as well try to keep a bird from flying.

You could have heard the proverbial pin drop as they built the height and momentum needed. The big swings back and forth, the speed increased as Dick pumped his legs to gain the distance. He caught his father's eye, gave an almost imperceptible nod, released, tucked immediately and spun his small body faster than you'd have thought possible to straighten out at the last second and thwack his hands onto John's wrists, John gripping him just as tight with no slipping, no bobble.

The crowd exploded, the ringmaster barely heard over the cheering and applause "Ladies and Gentlemen, a quadruple!"

Dick was gently deposited on the small platform next to his mother who hugged him hard for a second before releasing him to acknowledge the crowd then gave John a look he knew didn't mean anything good. "Okay, sweetheart, down you go—Dad and I have some work to finish."

Dick half climbed, half slid down the ladder, landing with the applause still ringing, took his bow, waved and moved off to the side so his parents could finish the act. The clowns and a few of the others surrounded him, hugging him, slapping his back and making it this side of impossible for his parents to get anyone to look at them while they finished up and John realized that it was a dumb mistake he'd made—from now on the quad ended the act—there was no way to top it and anything else was an anticlimax.

Well, from now on that was what they'd do. Hey, you live and you learn or you don't live long, right?

So, the next thing was to make sure the reporters covering the charity aspect of the performance knew what they'd just seen. Publicity mattered, it sold tickets and ticket sales meant they all had a job.

This was what was going through John Grayson's mind as he and Mary finished the last couple of passes before finishing up the act for the night, one more pass which would put them both on the same trap, deposit them on the left platform. Then they'd pose with arms up, swing out, drop onto the now raised net, flip once, roll over to the side for the dismount, bow, wave to the crowd with Dick then exit.

Simple, they'd done it a thousand times.

She made the easy cross over to his bar and started to give him that look he knew, the one where he knew he was in for a long night for not telling her about Dick trying the quad and without a net, no less.

She made the catch, griping with no problem. They were both still holding the bar when they hit the ground.

As they were falling, for the three days it took for them to hit the ground and the sawdust, John saw the horror on her face, desperately tried to find a way to save her, save himself, save them both and his hand left the bar automatically to try to hold her. He saw Dick standing below, the smile on his face turning to shock and then disbelief and then to terror as his parents were killed. John wanted to tell Mary he loved her, wanted to touch her, wanted to make it not be happening.

The last thing he saw were her eyes staring, wide with fear and her screaming.

He died instantly, his neck and back broken, his skull shattered.

Mary lived for a few minutes, dying but not yet dead. Not quite. She knew John was gone, she'd known as soon as…she couldn't hear anything, could only see what was directly in front of her, couldn't move her head or any of her limbs and realized, dimly that she'd probably broken her back. She saw Dick, her son, her mirror image, her baby, a couple of feet away, staring at her as he knelt beside her. She thought he might have put his hand on her shoulder, though she couldn't feel anything and tried to tell him she loved him but couldn't speak.

She didn't feel any pain and she was surprised about that but mostly what she felt was sadness that Dick was left alone and hoped her family would take care of him, even after the way they'd parted and all the arguments. He was still young, only eight and he needed so much, so much guidance, so much love and encouragement. No one seemed to understand that—he was always so confident, so out going, but he was still so young and now they wouldn't be there to take care of him.

She and John had some years together, not enough, but now Dick would be alone and that made her so incredibly sad that she wanted to apologize to him and tell him how sorry she was that they'd been killed, but couldn't manage to speak.

Dick knew she was dead then. She was still looking at him with her eyes that were exactly like his own but she had stopped breathing and the circus people were trying to lead him away. He stood up, letting them do their work but refusing to leave until his parents were loaded onto gurneys and put into the ambulance, saw the paramedics place the sheets over his parents bodies and watched as the blood which was pooled on the ground soaked through the fabric, staining it bright red and he thought, inappropriately, that red was one of his mother's favorite colors, so maybe she would be somehow pleased.

The others tried to comfort him, knowing there was no comfort to be had. He was allowed to change into jeans and a tee shirt and taken in a police car to a kid's jail because it was too late to take him anywhere else and the social worker called in was incompetent at her job, making him wonder if they thought he'd been responsible for the accident.

* * *

**Path B**

It had been another fancy schmancy Charity performance the night before and thank God it had ended up being pretty much just another night at the office after all. Y'see, a lot of people think that because there are a lot of rich or famous people in the house it's a big deal, but to the performers it's just another day at work. They go through their warm ups, wear their usual costumes, and go through their routines just like they do every night of the week. It's not quite like punching a time clock, but it's not all that different, either. Most of the time, anyway.

Thank God.

It was almost—God. If Dick hadn't seen the ropes, if he hadn't said something, if he hadn't thrown the closest thing to a tantrum he'd had since he was two years old they could have been killed.

As it was, Mary was white with shock and fear, swearing that this was it, she wasn't going up there again and Dick wasn't setting foot off the ground if she had to tie him to a stake and sit on him.

"Mary, don't be silly, all right? The ropes frayed, Dick saw them, they were replaced and nothing happened. It's fine."

"Fine? He could have been killed—we all could have been killed and all you can say is 'don't worry about it, these things happen'? For God's sake, John…"

"Mary…" If she knew they'd been cut she'd be flat out cold on the floor or on the next train home to Mama, with Dick in tow.

"It's too dangerous—I've said that before and you never listen, you just pooh-pooh me and say I'm being over protective or hysterical or something but this was just too close. When I think of what could have happened…I'm going to call my father and we're leaving in the morning. You know he'll give you a job with the company and then we can live like normal people for once in our lives—Dick can go to a real school and we can stop living like vagabonds."

She was upset, he knew that and frankly so was he, but for God's sake, cut and run because of one incident? Jesus, if anything happened to Mary or Dick he'd never forgive himself, but to run away because one set of thugs tried to shake down the show? The cops had arrested them, they wouldn't be bothering anyone and the show was moving two hundred miles in the morning anyway. Nothing happened. They were all safe and sound and, Christ, leaving the circus? It was their lives and as soon as some time went by, Mary would come around. He knew she would, she always did—like the other times she'd insisted they quit, get 'normal' jobs in one place so Dick could go to a real school instead of being home schooled.

It never happened, they were still with Haley's and Dick was as smart as they come. He read like a grad student, he had more friends than he could count, he'd seen more of the country—and Europe—than any kid who wasn't in this life and he was happy and loved. The kid was fine, great, incredible, fantastic and was getting better all the time.

He'd bring her around, he knew he would. They'd put the quad in as a regular part of the act and then the big shows would be after them even more than they usually were. He'd be able to negotiate more money and Mary would be happy about that. They'd be fine.

It had been a damn close call, though and he didn't like thinking about what could have happened. John had been at the show years ago when the Wallenda's had their big fall. He'd just been a little kid, but that's the kind of thing you don't ever forget. The Wallenda's were a big tight knit family of wirewalkers, probably the best in the world. They had this act where they'd build these big pyramids on the high wire, they'd have three or four of the big men on the bottom, men balancing in their shoulders and the ladies on top of them with maybe one more on top like a big old cherry and they'd walk like this on that wire, back and forth. Sometimes they'd even do the act up on special bicycles on the wire, back and forth, seven people in a pyramid.

One night, God knows why, someone lost their balance and the whole pyramid fell with no net to break the fall. Three of the men fell, two were killed, the third paralyzed from the waist down. Oh, sure, they rebuilt the act and even did the same trick again, but John never forgot the thud of bodies hitting the ground and the screams.

He'd never forget that and once in a great while, maybe after a rough practice, he'd wake up in a cold sweat seeing Dick on the ground like the Wallenda's and in his dream he'd have the same look on his face Karl Wallenda had that night.

So sure, sometimes he thought about what he was asking Mary and Dick to do, but God—they all loved it so much. The traveling, the crowds, the attention, even dealing with the bills and the sprains and the cramped little trailer they lived in on the road.

He'd never seen a kid as happy as Dick and Mary, damn; she was everything he'd ever wanted all in one five-foot tall package. Smart and pretty and funny and she loved him back as much as he loved her.

The act was fine. They were fine. They'd be in Hartford tomorrow and that was that.

"Hey Dad? Mom wants you inside."

"Thanks, son. Isn't it getting to be past your bed time?"

"Billy said he'd show me some more juggling stuff now and I can sleep during the drive later, okay?" He meant the drive to Hartford after the strike was done, after they were packed to go and it wouldn't be all that long. When you move every week, you get good at it.

"I guess. I mean, if it's all right with your mother."

Dick gave his dad a blushing smile. "Mom said she wanted to talk to you. Inside, Dad."

John knew what that meant even better than Dick did. Mary was ready to make up and Dick, at eight years old, knew they'd like it if he were busy for an hour or so.

Smart kid. Good kid and tonight he may well have saved lives.

TBC  



	2. Chapter 2

Yes, I know, I know—the original Teen Titans story had Kid Flash instead of Speedy. I know that. This is dramatic license…it's why it's fanfic, okay?

**Part Two Path A: Four Years later**

"Master Dick, Master Bruce has requested that you join him downstairs at your earliest convenience." Alfred had gently knocked on Dick's bedroom door; the boy was inside, lying on his bed with several books opened in front of him.

"Sure, what's going on?"

"I believe there have been some problems at the with the Joker again which the Master would like to address this evening—assuming that your homework is finished, of course."

"Almost."

"Then when you are done with whatever is still outstanding, please make your way downstairs. Might you like some milk while you're working?"

Dick shook his head, not really answering though Alfred let it go. It would be quicker without the snack anyway and Master Bruce wasn't always as patient with the child as he might be, which was unfortunate.

"I also hesitate to mention this, but are you aware of Newsweek's current cover story?"

Dick barely glanced up from his Algebra. "I saw it. It's just the usual garbage repeated again. They didn't even try to check the facts with me or Bruce or anyone who might have a clue…just the same old crap about me being 'placed in life threatening situations and living just a hair's breath away from death—and at his young age, no less'. They even tried to bring up the old chestnut about 'young boy and a grown man working perhaps too close together'. I mean give me a break and buy a new record for a change, why don't they? The point of the stupid thing is to try to set age limits and ban any vigilantes below the age of eighteen or twenty-one or something."

"I dislike being the bearer of common sense, but you are, in fact, quite young for this sort of life."

"And I was young for traveling in the circus or watching my parents…" He stopped himself. "And I'm fine, Alf." He slapped his book closed and rolled himself off the bed, landing with unconscious perfect form, finished with the assignment. "It's all good, Alf. Besides, you know me—the bad guys don't stand a chance." He flashed that big smile, deflecting any argument Alfred might make—and there were any number of possibilities as to what he could have said. "'Outta here, see you later."

Changing into his costume down in the cave, Dick started focusing on the night's work. Dick hated the Joker and he could get along with almost anyone. In fact, there was hardly anyone in the world he hated. Okay, he hated Tony Zucco, but that was personal and Dick had won that one—if you didn't count the fact that Zucco scored the final trump card when he'd killed Dick's parents so there was no way to really win that one short of raising the dead. Sure, Dick had caught him, linked him with hard evidence and the man would never see the outside of a prison, but Dick's parents were still dead so it was—as Alfred would have put it—'a pyrric victory at best'. But the Joker just really cheesed Dick off. Oh, sure, he could almost be entertaining if you liked completely nuts but Joker had started crossing the line to just outta control, unlike Riddler who still had a sense of humor, at least.

But, hey, you do what you gotta do, right? Joker, Riddler, Two-face, Cat Woman…all in a day's work.

And, man, despite what he'd said to Alfred, that stupid Newsweek article was bugging him, too. It wasn't like it was anything he hadn't seen before, but couldn't they have even called him to verify the junk they were writing this time? He might even have agreed to an interview or something just to set the record straight a little. Bruce keeping him around because he liked little boys? Please. Bruce hardly took time out for dinner, let alone for being a perv—and he liked girls anyway, which he also usually didn't take time for.

Now Dick would like to take some time for girls and he'd been thinking about asking for some 'personal' time for a while now. His school friends, such as they were, invited him to parties and movies and stuff but he usually had to beg off with some lame excuse because he was really out busting some drug ring or something.

Oh, there were some serious perks to being the Boy Wonder, no question about that no-brainer. How many kids could call Superman a personal friend and co-worker? That was pretty cool.

So he didn't always get to go to a birthday party or spend an afternoon at the pool with everyone. It wasn't like he didn't get to do stuff. Major stuff. But it would be nice to be normal, or close to it for a change, even if it was just a couple of hours. Besides, sure, he was dedicated to what they were doing and all, but cripes—he'd like to have a life too, y'know? Back when his parents were still alive he had a life, they all did in fact. Oh sure, they all worked and worked hard, but there was still time for a baseball game or a picnic in some park or something. They'd take time to have dinner together or with friends and birthdays were always a big deal—there was always a cake and balloons—he missed stuff like that; the dumb stuff. He got to do some incredible things now, but sometimes he sort of wished that…well, you know, he wished that maybe things could be well, maybe a little softer or something.

Right. Like that would ever happen with Bruce and Alfred calling the shots but you don't ask, you don't get, right?

"Hey Bruce, you got a minute?"

No, he was talking to Batman now. The cowl was always a big giveaway—that and the stoic scowl he was getting. "We're late getting started. Talk in the car."

Okay, whatever.

They were halfway to the bridge when Dick finally got the conversation—or the usual lack of conversation to where he wanted to take the jump. "I was thinking—you know how I have spring break next month?"

Silence.

"Some of my friends are going down to Pat's shore house—his parents are going to be there and everything. Is it okay of I go?"

"That's when the terrorist threat is greatest in Gotham because of the presidential visit and that economic conference."

"Yeah I guess, but do you really need me to be there? I mean, the JLA will be watching, right? And the regular cops?"

"We'll talk about it later."

Dick knew what that meant. No. Forget it. Put it in the circular file. "Ah, Bruce, c'mon…"

That was as far as he got before the Bat glare stopped him cold. Period. No week at the shore. No hanging with normal kids. Zip. Work, Dick—that's what you do. Work Robin. Honor roll, practice, study, concentrate, homework, research, eat, sleep, start over.

Two moths later, and after no trip to the beach, Robin was waiting for Batman to finish a JLA meeting. Normally he wouldn't have even been there, but they'd just finished a collar an hour before and Alfred wasn't around to pick the boy up and he didn't have his motorcycle so here he was. Hanging out in the lobby of the place, he was spending the wait time on an English essay when a boy walked in and sat down a few feet away. He was about Dick's age, had a red costume on making him look like Robin Hood crossed with Will Scarlet—complete with bow and quiver and had enough attitude to sink a ship.

"You're Robin, right?"

No, I always dress like this when I forget to do the laundry. "Right, and you're…?"

"Speedy, back half of Green Arrow."

"Yeah, I've heard of you." He hadn't, but was trying to be polite out of habit. "Hi."

"So how do you stand working with the Bat? Ollie says he's a major pain and completely anally uptight."

Screw this guy. "At least he'd not a drunk."

"Fuck you."

"'Right back atcha."

Dick went back to his essay, tuning out Speedy who was doing everything to gain attention—cracking his knuckles, blowing bubbles with his gum, messing around with his bow and arrows. Dick ignored him.

"So, have you heard about Mr. Twister?"

"Hmm?" Dick didn't bother to even look up.

"Mr. Twister—he's a nutcase Ollie thinks I could take solo. He's right, but if you want, I wouldn't mind some company."

"You asking me to help you with a collar?" He still didn't bother to look at the other kid, making Speedy uncomfortable, just as he'd intended. Hey—always good to have the upper hand, y'know?

"I'm saying maybe we could work together, maybe have some fun."

"Fun?" Dick looked like the other kid had lost his mind before he flashed on the thought that Speedy was right—this might be fun. "Well, yeah, maybe."

"Cool. I'll give Wally a call and maybe Garth would like in on this—you know those guys?"

"Not exactly." Dick had heard of them but had never actually met them.

"They're okay—Garth's a little shy and Wally's a little hyper, but you'll like them."

The door to the main meeting room opened, Batman gave Dick a quick glance and a curt nod; his cue to get going. "Um, Batman? I have a case to work on, okay?"

"Excuse me?" Semi-Bat glare.

"Speedy asked my help with Mr. Twister and we have to leave like now."

"The two of you alone together?" Bruce made it sound like a death knell.

"And Kid Flash and Aqualad." He went on before Bruce could cut him off. "I'll call in."

The two kids left fast before they could be called back or refused permission, the two of them exchanging a look that immediately became mutual grins of accomplishment. "Hey, Speedy…"

"Roy."

Real names—excellent! "Yeah, Roy—this is gonna be awesome, four of us—we'll be like a junior JLA!"

"Junior League—you mean bush league—the hell with that, dude—we're frigging teenaged Titans!"

Titans—oh yeah.

And maybe friends, too. Excellent.

* * *

"I don't care, Alfred, he just took off without so much as a by your leave. He didn't even tell me where this supposed case is happening and that other kid, that Speedy Oliver Queen is raising, Christ!"

"Master Dick is fine—he's bright and well-mannered, talented and popular with fans and his school friends alike. And you said yourself that he was happy when he left with the other young man. Really, Bruce, what more could you want for him than that?"

* * *

**Path B**

"Hey Dad, did you see this?"

Dick was holding the letter that had finally caught up with them this morning. John and Mary had read it, but hadn't made any decisions yet. They were in the little house down in Venice, Florida they'd owned for years; the one they spent most of the winter break in—them and almost every other circus act in the country.

"It's from Ringling Brothers; they want us to join their winter tour in Europe, three months, eleven dates in different cities and seven countries. Are we going to do it?"

"Your Mom and I were just talking about that. Think it sounds like fun?"

He called from his tiny bedroom, "…Well, yeah. Maybe we could get some skiing in—we'll be in Innsbruck and Grenoble. Sounds like a plan to me, anyway." Dick changed his tee shirt, was now wearing his swim trunks and was half out the front door when he paused for half a second. "Besides, it would be money."

"True. We'd have to be in Paris by Monday, though, so we'll have to decide by morning. Where are you going?"

"The beach."

"With…?"

"Joe, Sarah, Christian, Buddy, the usual."

"And you'll be back by three so we can work on that new pass, right?"

"Four?"

"Three."

"But…"

"…Thirty."

"Deal."

The group were at their usual, favorite part of the beach, right on the Gulf and it was a sunny, hot, perfect beach day even with a bunch of tourists wandering around. The kids were all circus rats—Dick, of course, Joe's parents were both clowns, Sarah was an equestrian and did stunts on her family's horses, Christian's Mom was a costume designer, his Dad was a lighting designer and all the kids were going into the family business. They'd grown up pretty much together, often traveled together and were tight. There were a few more in the crowd, but not everyone wintered in Venice and a few families had picked up gigs here and there. They'd all meet up sooner or later, they always did—it was just the life they led.

"Hey Dick, how come you didn't say anything about that article last week? You think we wouldn't find out about it?" Joe pulled the Sport's Illustrated out of Sarah's beach bag, opening to the right page. There was a two page spread about Dick, calling him the best young gymnast in the country no one had ever heard of and what a shame it was he wasn't competing and being groomed for international level events. There was a full color picture of him stretching out to catch the bar and comments from his parents, Haley and some guy who was supposed to be the top coach in the US, all saying he could go as far as he wanted with his talent, brains, personality and looks (okay, the writer added that herself) and even a quote from Russia's head gymnastics coach saying that Dick was the only American he'd seen in years who he'd consider taking on for training. The sky was the limit, pun intended—college scholarships, circus work, stunt work, pro athletics; whatever he wanted. He could even do modeling if it struck his fancy.

"Oh, please—you know Mr. Haley plants these things for publicity. He probably called them and invited them to the show, for God's sake."

"Uh-huh." Sarah laughed out loud at that. "He never called Horse and Hounds to do an article about me, Richard"

"Guys, c'mon." Poor Dick was seriously blushing—he didn't mind doing publicity to help the show, it was part of the job in fact, but spare me.

His friends smiling at his embarrassment but decided to let it drop—besides, that was just so Dick; modest. He really was all the stuff it said in the stupid article, but that didn't mean he wanted it spread around. Besides, he probably didn't believe what they'd written, anyway.

"So did you finish that stupid essay in English? Scarlett Letter? Cripes, talk about something that means nothing in my life." Joe wasn't what you'd call the literary type, but he was as a good guy, solid and down to earth and dependable as you could get.

"It wasn't that bad, just a little dated, that's all. But yeah, Catcher in the Rye was better."

"That is such a Grayson comment. You even liked Shakespeare, for Christ's sake." The four of them were lounging on old blankets, drinking the bottled water they'd brought and Dick was secretly wishing Sarah liked him as much as she liked Joe. Christian, over a little to the side, had fallen asleep. His father had picked up a few days work up at Disney designing some show or other and Christian had been dragged along as his assistant to help direct the crew. The men had balked at taking orders from a kid, until they'd realized he knew more than all of them put together. The put in had gone late, though, and so he was pretty tired today, but a job was a job and they all understood about that. They left him alone so he could get some rest.

The whole thing about being in regular school always took some adjusting for everyone, too. Most of the year they kids were pretty much home schooled while they were on the road and that seemed to work out pretty well, but then they'd get to Florida, have a couple of months off and have to spend five days a week in a stuffy classroom from eight in the morning till two-thirty and it was a pain. Thank God for the weekends, anyway.

And weekends were to be used.

"So you guys want to go up to Disney later? We can catch a ride with Christian's Dad and we got comped for some day passes—you all up for it?" Professional courtesy between shows was a beautiful thing.

Dick shook his head. "'Have to practice. My Dad wants to work on a new pass later."

"Do it tomorrow, it's not like you need it tonight or anything. C'mon—this is supposed to be winter break, right? Your Dad is a good guy, he'll be okay with that." Joe gave Christian a small kick. "You working the show tonight?"

He didn't even bother opening his eyes. "Yeah, I'm working follow spot; the call is six and we're leaving around four-thirty. Dad said we could give you all rides both ways and I can meet you when I'm done—that should be like eight, eight-thirty. And the park is opened till midnight tonight."

"Dick, c'mon, ask your mother. You know she'll let you go."

Yeah, she would, even knowing they might be on a plane to France in two days and they had a thousand things to do, she'd probably let him go. He got up, went over to the pay phones by the snack stand and five minutes later had permission. The tradeoff was that he'd be mowing the grass in the morning, working that afternoon on the routine and probably packing tomorrow night and he was fine with that. Fair was fair, he knew that, he knew he had to work and he loved what they did so he'd do what he had to do.

"Hey Dick, 'help me with the essay tomorrow?" Joe always had trouble with stuff like that.

"Sure, after dinner. No problem." No point in telling them he might be leaving until he knew for sure and they'd all see one another in a few months anyway. It was just the way they lived and they were all used to it. No big deal.

"Thanks, man."

A few hours later, up at Disney world, the kids stopped by the live show Christian was working in Epcot just as the thing was winding down to the last twenty minutes or so. It was some college-aged German dance troupe that had come over for some tour or other and this was their main stop. They were all lederhosen and dirndls and om-pah-pah and the crowd seemed to love the show, so that was good. The kids were too polite and too professional to say anything but Dick and his friends thought it was pretty lame and were glad when the final bows were over. After the audience cleared they automatically started helping the crew with the strike, Dick was carrying some costumes over to the racks and uncharacteristically tripping over a sound cable. "Are you all right? Are you hurt?"

He was fine, embarrassed, but fine. He was a flier, an acrobat, for Chrissake, he was supposed to be able to walk and chew gum, thanks, not trip over his feet. Looking up, he saw a blonde girl about his age, smallish, slender and with eyes a shade of green he'd be at a loss to describe—emerald? Leaf? Sea green? Grass? Whatever color they were, he liked it.

"I'm sorry I dropped the costumes—they didn't get dirty, did they?" Smooth, Grayson, real smooth.

She smiled at his embarrassment and shook her head. They were fine. "Are you new? I haven't seen you working here." She gave him an encouraging smile. "I'm Amy."

"I'm Dick—I'm just here with a friend; he's with the light crew—I was helping out until he finished so we can all see some of the park."

"Tower of Terror is awesome and they have some pretty impressive fireworks around ten—have you ever been here before?"

"Um, oh yeah. We usually get here a couple of times a year when we're around—you know, spend the day, see the sights and stuff." Jeez, she was really pretty and she seemed nice, too and now he was babbling like an idiot. He stopped himself and screwed up his courage, c'mon, Grayson, you can turn a quad in front of an arena crowd, you can do this; "Maybe you'd like to come with us? I mean, if you're not busy or anything." She hesitated, probably not wanting to hang out with vacation kids or something, and they didn't know each other … "Hey, we're not tourists or anything, honest. Christian's father is the LD for the show and we all live around here—well, down in Venice during the winter. You can meet his Dad if you want if he hasn't left for the other show he's working tonight. A few of us are just going on some of the rides and stuff—really—nothing bad is going to happen or anything."

"Venice in the winter? Do you live with all those circus people?"

"Well, yeah, we're all circus people, we all live there for Haley's winter layoff—my family has a trapeze act and Christian's parents work lights and costumes, Joe's parents are clowns, Sarah works the horses—why, do you have a problem with circus'?" A lot of people did—that old cliché about Carney's all being thieves and stuff was still pretty deeply rooted and when you added 'gypsy' into the mix, well—forget it.

"God no—I think that's awesome! My Mom does wardrobe for Ringling Brothers and circus people are the best. Um, look, my Mom is backstage, I'd have to ask her if it's okay and I know she'll want to meet you and the others and probably your friend's father if he's still here. Do you mind?"

Mind? Was she kidding? "Nah, that's fine—my parents get the same way."

He half followed her, close enough to hear, "They're with Haley's, Mom and you know how good those guys are—I mean, God, weren't you telling me that Ringling is always trying to steal their acts?" Dick heard another voice, but couldn't make out the words then Amy's voice again, "He's completely gorgeous and he has the most incredible, bluest eyes you've ever seen and he's a flyer, Mom—he's a real flyer! God, you should see his arms! Please?"

Amy came out from the dressing area, "Dick, this is my Mom, Donna Skeller. Mom, this is Dick."

"I'm Dick Grayson, it's nice to meet you."

"Grayson? The Flying Grayson's?" He nodded and she gave him a good hard stare "My God! You're related to Johnny, aren't you? I swear you could be his twin—well, his younger brother, anyway—and what's he up to these days—still breaking hearts?" Amy's mother was laughing a little too much.

"You know my Dad?"

"Well, I used to, a hundred years ago, anyway. So he's still with Haley's and he's got you working in the family business, does he? You tell him Donna from Barnum and Bailey was asking for him, okay? My God, you're even better looking than he was and he was a damn beauty, let me tell you—had all the girls heads spinning!"

Uh, right. Mom would be thrilled to hear this. Not. "Is it okay with you if Amy comes with us for a few hours? My friends are right over there and Christian's father is over by the light board." Mom Donna walked to the back of the audience, speaking with the Dad for a long couple of minutes while Dick and Amy made eyes at one another. Finally, the two parents were walking back to the stage together, laughing.

"I didn't know your friend's father was Peter Schmidt—good Lord, we were touring together before any of you were born. Now you keep your phone on, Amy, and you meet me back at the costume shop at twelve, sharp, understood? I'm going to be tired and I don't want to be waiting forever for you."

The kids hit the rides they could in the time they had, choosing to stay at Epcot to not lose time shuttling back and forth between parks. By half way through the first ride Dick and Amy were holding hands and by the third he'd learned that Donna was thinking about switching jobs to Haley's 'B' troupe this coming spring and the kids were starting to talk about meeting up again.

"I'm not sure which tour we're on this year; we did the American one last time, the blue show, so that means we usually switch to the red, the European tour this year, but Mr. Haley has been changing things around but it would be awesome if we were all together this time out."

They ended the night with promises to stay in touch and an exchange of addresses and Dick saying that if she didn't hear from him for a couple of weeks, she shouldn't worry. Really.

* * *

"I know how you feel about it, but he should have been here this afternoon to work on that pass and I wanted to talk about the new tour, too. You're too easy on him, Mary."

"Oh, really John, he's twelve years old and he's just fine. Besides, we're leaving tomorrow night and he won't see his friends for at last three months. There's no harm done."

"My father would have worn me out if I'd skipped a practice to see my friends…"

"Um-hmm. Like he did when you were sneaking out to see me?" She smiled at him; she had him there and they both knew it. Dick was fine—he was bright and well-mannered, talented and popular. And he was happy.

That was all they could hope for him—and more than most ever have.

TBC

22


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimers: These guys aren't mine, they don't belong to me, worst luck, so don't bother me.

Archive: Fine, but if you want it, please ask first.

Feedback: Hell, yes. National Dance Institute is a real organization, founded in 1976 by premier ballet dancer Jacques d'Amboise, former principal dancer at the New York City Ballet. Its goal is to bring dance to school aged children, using the medium to motivate excellence while teaching discipline and a love of the arts in its students. I strongly suggest watching the Academy Award winning film "He Makes Me Feel Like Dancin'" to understand what the program—and the man himself, do.

**Part Three **

**Three Years Later**

**Fifteen Years Old **

****

**Path A**

Dick was pretty happy about the way things were going right about now. He was doing well in school—like Bruce would tolerate anything less than Honor Roll in this lifetime—he was starting to actually make a couple of friends in his classes after years of being thought of as either a weird charity case, a geek or flat out boring and the stupid rumors about him and Bruce seemed to have died down for a while. Okay, he knew that they'd start up again in a few months because that was what always happened, but for now things were looking all right.

On the Robin front things were even better; He was leading the Titans who were getting the credit that was frankly due them for some of the stuff they were doing—not that credit was why they did what they did, of course, but it was still nice to have. He was beginning to think that Barbara might start looking at him as something other than a little brother one of these days and that thought was the cause of more than one embarrassing incident between Alfred and his laundry (not that Alfred would ever say anything, of course). One of these days. Maybe. If he was lucky.

Sometimes even Dick wondered why he was so hooked on Barbara instead of almost anyone else he'd ever met. Sure, she was smart and beautiful, had a killer bod and they had an incredible amount in common, but he could say the same thing about him and Donna when you came down to it. And Donna was even one of his best friends to boot. But friends though they were, they just didn't have the spark he felt when he was around Barbara. They just didn't click the same way. Once he'd even tried to say something to Bruce about it—the playboy of the western world, right? He should have a clue about this kind of thing, you'd think, right?

Nope. Nothing. Nada.

Well, okay, he'd made the expected comments about how even though he understood that Dick was feeling 'urges' (God!) in that direction, and that was perfectly normal, well, he was not only a bit young for that sort of thing, but he really needed to be concentrating on more important things right now. With his body going through all the changes it was, with his center of gravity shifting a bit so that he had to adjust his gymnastics moves and the amount of work he was expected to be doing in school, on top of his 'evening' job, plus his time spent leading the Titans, well, he could better afford to think about this sort of thing in a few years when his life was a bit more settled.

Yeah, right. Big help.

"Master Dick, there was some mail for you today, did you see it?" Alfred left the tray loaded with milk and cookies on Master Bruce's heirloom solid teak desk, the one his great great great grandfather had commissioned from the Chippendale's furniture company several hundred years ago.

Dick was outlining the history term paper he had to turn in next month while sitting on the floor of Bruce's study, close to the encyclopedia, the rare book collection and the big computer (Okay, not as big as the ones downstairs, but bigger than the one Dick had up in his room). He had to write an entire thirty-plus page paper, complete with footnotes and all the bells and whistles, on the importance of political pamphlets during the American Revolution. God, kill me now. Please. Common Sense by Thomas Paine. And…? There had to be more. There had to be. Maybe if he triple spaced instead of double spacing the teacher wouldn't notice.

Uh-huh, and he could write it in pig Latin while he was at it, too. This was a nightmare.

"What mail?"

Alfred handed him the letter. "It was in Robin's box down at the headquarters and Batman picked it up last evening while you were at that Titans meeting. It seemed a bit different from the usual fan letters, if I might be allowed to venture an opinion." He handed it to the boy who showed mild interest, at best. These things were usually either requests for some kind of favor—visiting a sick kid, spending an afternoon at some school or something or an invitation to some six year olds birthday party. This looked like one of the charitable requests; it was a legal sized envelope with 'National Dance Institute' and some New York address in the left hand corner.

With only the slightest interest, he opened it, scanning the letter inside then tossed it aside. It was about what he'd expected, an invitation/request for him to be part of this year's main fundraiser for the Institute. They were giving a performance at the theater in Madison Square Garden in three weeks, he would be the featured guest and would only be asked to do whatever moves and dance he would be comfortable with. The kids participating had voted, he was the overwhelming favorite to be invited and they hoped he'd consider it. They would be proud if he said yes and would do what they could to work with his schedule.

He got these things all the time and would, occasionally, agree to them if he really had nothing else going on. He tries to help out where he could, but this was the same week they were going to spend at Bruce's place in Aspen—it was spring break and he'd been looking forward to some down time for a couple of months now. Sorry, Jacques, really am, but can't make it. He'd called in the morning to let them know they'd have to book someone else.

Come to think of it, maybe Donna would do it. She liked kids a lot and she'd studied dance. He'd call her later and feel her out on it. If she couldn't so it, maybe Kal—nah, he was always busy and even Dick felt funny about asking him for favors. Donna would probably help him out.

And everyone liked Donna; she was pretty, she was nice, she was always the one to bail him out of this kind of stuff.

He turned his attention back to obscure stuff about the Revolution, feeling slightly guilty and a little annoyed that it bothered him. He worked hard both at school and as Robin and it wasn't like he didn't do charity stuff all the time. He did. He did lots of this stuff. He'd stopped by at Ronald McDonald House just two days ago when they'd asked him to and spent almost three hours talking to sick kids, signing autographs, throwing some basic moves. And last month he showed up at three of Bruce's boring dinners and two more meet and greets for the Titans plus he'd given a couple of interviews that had nothing to do with the current cases—he worked hard and he deserved some time to himself. He really did.

And he was starting to really hate the sound of squealing teenaged girls. They always asked him if he'd kiss them or let them take a picture with his arm around them or to autograph their bras or something. God—it was just so, so…it was so gross. And embarrassing. Yeah, most of his life was going pretty well right now, but sometimes, now and then it got to be weird.

Thomas Paine. Yeah, right. Back to work.

Besides, he'd heard Bruce talking to Alfred when he came down for breakfast this morning; Ra's was around again, recovered from the last encounter and probably gunning for Bruce again. This would mean that Dick—okay, Robin, would be in the line of fire and could well end up tied to a tree/rail road rack/ bridge trestle/speeding locomotive and have to be rescued before the week was out.

It was embarrassing, but it seemed to happen more often than he would like to admit. Luckily Bruce never seemed to get mad about it, though.

Then there was the stuff he had to deal with over at Titan Tower. Something was going on with Roy and whatever it was wasn't good. He'd been moodier than usual, bad tempered, obnoxious and a real pain in the ass. Garth had even come close to losing his temper with him and Garth never lost his temper about anything. Well, hardly ever, anyway. He really had to be pushed to get cheesed off and Roy was doing it to everyone lately. He was acting kind pf spacey, too and Dick thought that maybe he had started drinking again, but hadn't ever smelled any liquor on his so that probably wasn't it.

It could be drugs, of course and that was what it was starting to look like. The question was what drugs and how much and Dick planned on finding out this week then seeing what had to be done to fix whatever the problem was.

He felt kinda bad about it, but he really didn't have time for everything and charity stuff was on the back burner right now.

So was almost everything else, for that matter. He was simply too busy.

* * *

**Path B**

"So are you and Amy going to that movie tonight, honey?" Haley's was playing Scottsdale, Arizona this week and over the last three years Dick and Amy had become a teenaged item. Her mother, Donna, had signed on as head of Haley's wardrobe department two years ago so they were all traveling together most of the year and no one seemed to object when the kids wanted to go into some town or other to catch a film, do some window shopping or just take a walk—so long as it didn't interfere with a performance or rehearsal, of course. Work was work.

"I don't know, maybe. I heard there's a public pool around here we could go to instead."

Mary and John were sitting on folding chairs outside their trailer, enjoying the sun, reading and doing chores. "That would be nice—and did you call that reporter back like I asked you to do?" The annoyed sigh and silence were answer enough for his mother. "Dick, I've asked you at least three times this morning and you know how I feel about not returning phone calls; it's rude. Will you please go make that call? Now."

"…Fine."

Mary looked over at John; irritated he hadn't backed her up on this. "Dick, do what your mother asked."

"I hate reporters, they ask stuff that's none of their business."

"To which you politely smile and tell them you'd rather not answer that one if they don't mind. Go make the call."

He gave an annoyed and theatrical sigh. "Fine." With every line of his body saying exactly what he thought about having to call this guy, Dick went to the box office to use the phone, leaving his parents alone outside of the small trailer. They were quiet for a few minutes while Mary repaired a torn shoulder seam on Dick's new costume and John looked over the local paper.

"Since when does he have a problem with reporters?"

"Since they started writing more about his looks and asking whether he has a girlfriend than about his quad."

"Jack wants to feature him in the new placards and newspaper ads. Did you know about that?"

John kept his face in the newspaper. "I think he mentioned something about that a month or two ago; said that since we're the lead act and he's…"

"And he's a good looking young man…"

"Jack said he's getting fan letters mentioning Dick and referring to him as, I think the phrase was 'that hunk'."

"And far be it for Jack to miss an opportunity to cash in on something." She wasn't happy about this.

"C'mon, Mary, you know how the business works; you sell what the public wants to buy. The better you do that, the more tickets you sell."

"And can you honestly say you're happy about your fifteen year old son being packaged and sold as a teenaged heart throb? You can't tell me you think Dick will enjoy that—and I know I won't."

"I won't enjoy what?" Dick came around the corner of the trailer in time to hear the tail end of his parent's conversation.

"…Nothing. Don't worry about it." John gave him that look which meant 'drop it'. "Did you make that call?"

"I said I'd talk to him after the show tonight."

"Good. Thank you." Mary decided it was time to change the subject. "You also got another call this morning—did Bridget get a hold of you?"

Dick gave her a look like, 'you're doing it again, changing the subject' then gave her his 'you know I'll find out what you don't want me to know sooner later' but settled for now with, "No, I was over setting out the trapeze lines for later and she wasn't in the office just now; what did she want?"

"To tell you had a phone call—go see what it's about, sweetie." She pulled a piece of paper out of her pocket, "Here you are—'pls call Jack Duboy any time 212-555-9021'. It's a New York number, who's that, honey?"

Dick shrugged "I don't know", stuffed the message in his pocket and went inside to get a bottle of water before heading over to the costume area to pick up Amy.

"Dick? Please call that person back."

"I will."

"Now, please."

"…Fine."

"Hello? This is Dick Grayson, returning a call from Mr. Duboy, is he available?"

"Dad? It's for you. Somebody Grayson."…. "Hello?"

"Mr. Duboy? You called me?"

"Thanks for calling back so quickly, Dick. May I call you Dick?"

"Sure." Whatever. "What can I do for you?" Probably just another reporter.

"My name is Jacques d'Amboise and I head the National Dance Institute here in New York—I saw your show was going to be in town next week right at Madison Square Garden and I was hoping you could do us a favor."

"What favor, Mr. Duboy?" In fact Dick knew exactly whom he was talking to. Jacques d'Amboise was a legend and he'd seen that movie about his dance program just a couple of months ago It was pretty damn impressive. He'd also suspected why the man had called him.

"Call me Jacques, it's easier. Our headliner cancelled at the last minute and we're kind of stuck. You're an athlete, you know music and you're used to performing, plus you'll be in the same building anyway—our show is in the theater right there at the Garden. I was hoping you'd be willing to be our guest artist this year."

"Um, yeah, look—I'm flattered, but I have my own shows to deal with, y'know? We do like six performances a weekend, sometimes nine in three days. It's a lot. And I'm not a dancer, I'm just an acrobat, a flyer."

"Our show is on Monday which is usually dark for you, right? You're smart and you can move. I can teach you what you need to know and I'll make sure it showcases your strengths—so what do you say? You and Haley's get some extra publicity and I get a new guest artist; that sounds like a fair deal to me. Win-win all around."

If he turned it down he knew his parents would kill him and—damn—Jacques d'Amboise—the man was beyond incredible and he was asking—practically begging Dick to help him out. Okay, this was a no-brainer.

"Sure, it sounds like fun. We'll be in New York on the third, I'll give you a call then."

A week later Dick was in double rehearsals for Haley's and for Jacques' show as well. He had performances two or three times a day and then would go over to the theater on the other side of the building for an hour or so to learn the moves that had been choreographed for him. He was tired, but having more fun than he'd thought he would. Jacques was terrific—funny, smart and at the top of his game while demanding as much as Dick's father did with no slacking. He was learning pirouettes, jetes and all kinds of stuff he'd never cared about but which he was determined to get right—or as right as was going to happen in a week. His part mostly consisted of a few tumbling passes across the stage, plus he threw double layouts and some whip backs. It was a kick, but he knew the point of the show was the kids and so he toned it down to keep the main attention where it should be.

Dick had been around shows long enough to know where to put the focus.

The kids were great, too. The girls all had immediate crushes on him but went for cool instead of gushing and giggling, thank God and the boys all thought he was awesome for being a real circus performer and doing all that traveling but still being a regular guy who just sort of happened to be an incredible athlete. He arranged for the kids to see one of the matinees, thanks to Jack Haley being a sucker for his 'family's' requests and it was the first circus most of them had seen. After watching Dick do his part in the act, they were doubly impressed and he had the beginnings of a fan club that would follow him for years to come.

He'd had a good time working with Jacques and the kids. They'd been really patient with his non-dance status and had allowed him to do what he was good at, just like he'd been promised and it had made a fun change, too.

He'd been doing the act with his parents since he was four and sure, he loved it, but it was kinda routine after that long, even when they put in new stuff. Same old, same old.

The reporters who covered the thing for the papers and the local newscasts all knew the score as well, so they took all the dutiful shots of the kids, but spoke with Dick privately. Professionals, they knew a personality when they saw it. Oh, sure there were a bunch of dancers or gymnasts who could have done the moves he'd pulled off, but there weren't many who could have commanded the audience's attention like that or who had the same flair. He'd had them all eating out of his hand and later, when the show's producer asked to speak with John and Mary he'd made it clear he'd be interested in seeing, asking Dick what he'd like to be doing in a few years. Athletes were a dime a dozen—someone with natural charisma and showmanship who could do what Dick had done—steal a show away from cute kids in a theater filled with parents were hen's teeth.

After the production shots were in the New York Times and the Post, the Grayson's got two calls asking if their son was signed with a modeling agency. Both Calvin Klein and Ralph Lauren were interested and they'd had hints that Tommy Hilfiger was interested as well. Ford and Elite offered representation in their Men's divisions. Dick was embarrassed but agreed to listen when he heard that he could make money for basically standing around getting his picture taken in his spare time. He made it clear they'd all have to workaround his show schedule because that was his first responsibility, but since they seemed okay with that, he ended up signing with Ford with his first shoot scheduled in two weeks out of Boston since that was Haley's next stop anyway. He'd take a day to go over to the Cape for a few hours and be back in time for the seven o'clock performance. He'd make three thousand dollars for his trouble.

This could work out well if he was lucky. He wasn't sure if he wanted to go to college—okay, he was sure he didn't, but his mother wouldn't listen to that and he didn't want to disappoint her and since they didn't have any money for that right now, this could come in handy in a couple of years.

Then there was the other thing that was going on; Amy and Dick hung around each other as much as they could and that had the parents a little concerned. Every time they turned their backs the kids were off somewhere together. Now none of them were naïve enough to think the kids were just friends and John had broken up more than one session which seemed to be getting a bit out of hand, but they were still only fifteen and Dick's mother was still a devote Catholic.

"You know how your mother feels about that, Dick. Try to watch what you're doing, all right?"

"Dad…God!"

"You are being careful, aren't you? I mean, well—you know what I mean."

"…Could we please not have this conversation? Please?"

"All right, but you know that if you need…anything, I'll get them for you. I don't mind and I'd rather know you're prepared than to worry. So would your mother."

"Jesus, Dad…c'mon, drop it, will you? We're fifteen, for Chrissake."

"Well, you're a lot more mature and a lot more independent than most kids your age, you both are and when I was fifteen…"

"Oh, please don't finish that sentence."

"Just be careful, that's all I'm saying."

Dick had a look of embarrassed horror on his face as his father squeezed his shoulder and went back into the trailer, dreading having to go in there soon to get some sleep. It was tiny, just the one room and he knew his mom had put his father up to this, but there wasn't really any need. It wasn't like he was stupid or anything and neither was Amy.

Besides, they were being careful.

TBC

32


	4. Chapter 4

Title: Two Roads Diverged…Part Four

Author: Simon

Characters: Dick and the various people in his life—sixteen years old.

Rating: PG-13 for violence (though not in this chapter)

Summary: Sometimes a single moment decides the path your life will take. This is a look at that moment going two different ways and the possible differing consequences.

Warnings: none

Disclaimers: These guys aren't mine, they don't belong to me, worst luck, so don't bother me.

Archive: Fine, but if you want it, please ask first.

Feedback: Hell, yes. Roads Diverged

**Part Four**

**One Year Later. Sixteen Years Old.**

**Path A**

"But I told you I was going to help the Titans last night. After the tower was trashed again the city got involved and was threatening to fine us and it took all of us to try to straighten the mess up and—c'mon, Bruce. You can't be serious about grounding me for working, for Chrissake!"

"You went out without informing either myself or Alfred where you'd be, what you were doing or when we could expect you home. I was without your backup going up against Poison Ivy. Two months."

"Ah, c'mon, Bruce—that's horse shit and you know it…"

"Three. Would you care to go for more?"

Furious, Dick turned away, leaving the study before he got himself in any deeper, but Bruce could hear the slammed door from his room a couple of minutes later and had trouble concentrating on the file he'd been studying. This just wasn't like Dick, this temper and this defiance. He'd always been so easy going, so willing to follow orders that Bruce was at something of a loss as what to do with him. If it was just once or twice, he'd let it go, but this had been going on for months now with no end in sight. Every time he tried to have a conversation it ended up in an argument and Bruce was even starting to suspect that Dick might be actually losing respect for him or for Batman or possibly for both.

"You are quite hard on him sometimes if I may say so."

Bruce looked over at Alfred, tending the fire. He'd slipped in so quietly he'd gone unnoticed. "He needs discipline."

"He's a youngster, he needs understanding and guidance." He placed another log carefully on the pile in the grate. "As did you not so long ago." Straightening up and moving to the door, Alfred paused for a moment. "I would suggest that you go talk to him and mitigate your decision somewhat. He was, after all, working and helping his friends—it's not as if he was out joy riding, is it?" He left the door opened, a clear sign he wanted Bruce to deal with this and now.

Bruce sat back in his chair. The least Dick could have done was let them know where he was going and what he'd be doing—but maybe he had, come to think of it. Much as Bruce hated to admit it, Dick had said something when they were down in the cave, but the shower had been running and he'd answered without really knowing what Dick had said, thinking it was probably something about school or something along those lines. It was probably about the damn Tower getting trashed again. Hell, Alfred was right, like Alfred was always right. Fine. Pushing himself to his feet, he walked up to Dick's room, the door very slightly ajar and Dick's voice softly coming through.

"Well, that's good—the city is dropping all the fines and everything? Great—no it's really good. It gives us some more, I don't know, some more validity that we're actually helping or something…No, I can't. He won't let me out. I'm grounded…Yes, for working last night, what did you think I'm grounded for?...Maybe…I'd like that, of course I would, but I can't right now…"

Bruce knocked lightly, Dick made a quick excuse to whomever he was talking to and hung up as Bruce sat himself in the leather desk chair a few feet from where Dick was half lying, half sitting on his bed, waiting for Bruce to make the first move.

"I think I might have—over-reacted just now. Perhaps I was more harsh than was appropriate."

Dick stared at him like Bruce had just confessed to murdering Abraham Lincoln in a previous life. "Excuse me?"

"You were leading your team during a difficult situation and I may have come down too hard on you without meaning to."

"…You mean I'm not grounded?" And he was apologizing? Bruce? Good God.

"You're not grounded. However, if it happens again, if you take off like that without us knowing what's going on, I won't be as easy on you. Do you understand me?"

This was as much as he was going to get and Dick knew it. "All right."

"Have you finished your homework tonight?"

A little slack, maybe Bruce? Y'think? "I'm working on it."

"Have you given any thought to colleges? I've been meaning to talk to you about it—Harvard for business, maybe Wharton?"

Dick gave an inward groan. He knew this was coming, he was just hoping against hope it would never arrive. He wasn't all that sure he really wanted to go to college at all and he knew for certain he sure didn't want to spend four years, plus the inevitable grad school, studying management strategies and mergers. "I hadn't really decided."

"You're a junior, if you're looking for early admission, you have to get on it."

"I was kind of thinking I might like to take a year or two off after high school—maybe work, travel around. Y'know, take a breather."

Bruce looked at him like he'd just suggested he take a job as a male prostitute. "…Really?"

Deep breath and jump in, feet first. "My parents never went to college—no one in my family did, and they all did just fine."

Bruce was hiding just how horrified he was. This was coming from left field and Dick blowing off college hadn't occurred to him; the idea hadn't entered his mind for even a second. "That doesn't mean you need to follow what they did—with your intelligence, with the advantages you've had, I'd think you'd want to go as far as was possible. And what about you taking over the company eventually? You have to be prepared for that—it's not a simple thing to run, even with someone like Lucius helping you."

"Well, yeah, but I don't know if I'd be any good at that anyway, I mean, c'mon, I'm not you, Bruce." He knew he was on thin ice here. "I thought I'd like to just keep on with what I've been doing, maybe work with the JLA, maybe get my own city some day—you know, stick with what I'm good at."

Enough of this nonsense. "You're going to college." Bruce had had enough of this foolishness, teenaged rebellion was one thing, throwing away his future was another. "Finish your homework then get ready. We're going out in about half an hour—there's a high end burglary ring I want to nab tonight."

Three hours later Batman and Robin made the collar, catching up to the theft ring at one of Bruce Wayne's neighbor's homes. Robin seemed upset about something and was taking it out on the crooks—Batman had to put a hand on his shoulder when he punched a couple of the men a little too hard, breaking a jaw and causing a fairly severe concussion to another with a roundhouse kick. By the time the cops arrived, there was nothing left to do but call for the ambulances and the backup units to take the photos and fingerprints. Jack Drake promising to make a sizable donation to the Police Widow's League in gratitude for preventing his wife's jewelry from being stolen.

Back at the cave, Alfred was forced to gently suggest to Master Bruce that it was time for the young master to stop practicing on the dummies and get to bed. Besides, he'd already knocked the heads off of two of them and the sand was making a mess of the stone floor. "It's not like him to work quite this hard this late on a school night—did something unusual happen this evening, sir?"

"Nothing. He's just working off a little aggression."

"Indeed. Yours or his?"

* * *

**Path B**

"Dick? Where are you going?"

"Amy and I were just going for a walk, okay?"

"Why don't you two just stay around here for a change? You could watch a movie or something."

"It's too nice to stay inside and I've been cooped up all afternoon doing homework; I want to get out for a while."

"Where?"

"I don't know—the beach, I guess. We'll be back before eleven."

"Ten. It's a school night."

"…Fine. Ten." The screen door creaked as it slammed shut. They were back in Venice for Winter Break, the kids were back in regular school—juniors in high school, and it was time for everyone to kick back a bit after the last tour. Dick and Amy were still going strong and Mary was starting to wonder if she might actually be the one he ended up with, though John laughed at the idea—they were young, they were kids and it was a long way from teenaged dating to a marriage license.

Then a couple of days ago she'd gone into his room to put away some laundry. He'd been on the bed napping after another afternoon on the beach with his friends but when she reached for the top drawer he'd woken up and real fast.

"I'll get that stuff, Mom, just put it down."

But she already had the drawer pulled out and there they were, tucked in along the side by his socks; a box of condoms, opened and half empty. There was an awkward pause then, "Is there something you want to tell me?"

He blushed and gave her a half shrug. "…We're being safe."

"You're both sixteen years old."

"Half the kids in school have done it already, and it's not like it's a one night stand or anything."

"And what are you going to do when one of these things breaks? And does Amy's mother know about this?" Oh, no. "Does your father know? Did he buy these for you?" That was the kind of thing John would do and think he was protecting both Dick from getting the girl pregnant and her from knowing and having to worry.

"No—no." He half mumbled the rest. "You can get them free at Planned Parenthood."

"You're a Catholic…"

"Oh, c'mon, Mom. What are you going to do—make me go to confession?"

She was torn between wanting to kill him, spank him, yell at him or hug him and tell him he didn't have to rush anything because he was young and had so much time, but…"It wouldn't do you any harm, you know. How long has this been going on? And where, how do you…?"

Dick sat up, sighing in embarrassment and wanting this to go away. Talking sex with his mother was like—God, it was like…talking about sex with your mother. "About a year, I guess and we're always careful." He gave her a steady look, making it clear that whatever she may feel about this, he was going to do what he wanted so there was no point in making a major issue out of it. "Do you really want me to go to confession?"

"Not unless you feel you genuinely have something to confess, that you've committed a sin."

"I don't."

She put the clothes on his bed and left the room. John knew about this, she was sure of it and that infuriated her. He should have said something, even knowing how she'd feel about it—especially knowing how she'd feel about this.

But that had been last week and things had settled back down as things tend to do. Yes, John had known but had thought it better to keep her in the dark. Evidently Donna, Amy's mother not only knew about it, but had allowed the kids to use her trailer on the road and her house when in Florida. They'd even used the Grayson's place a few times when no one was home. Lovely.

"Mary? Have you seen this? Dick showed it to me while you were at the store." It was a letter from some Ohio State recruiter. "They want to fly Dick out to the school to take a look at their gymnastics program, they may be willing to offer him a scholarship."

"Has Dick said anything to you about wanting to go to college? I thought he wanted to keep doing what he's been doing; maybe do some stunt work or move to a bigger show, but stay with the circus."

John spread his hands, no, Dick hadn't said anything about this but that was no reason to dismiss it. "I'll call this guy, see what he has to say."

Fifteen minutes later they knew the offer to see the school was legitimate, the head of the gymnastics program had seen Dick turning the quad on TV and thought he looked like he could transfer his training to competitive gymnastics and, if willing and successful and all the stars aligned, the school might see their way clear to a pretty hefty scholarship. A hefty scholarship was the only way he'd be going to any college. Yes, he was commanding a thousand dollars a day for his modeling work, but that wasn't even close to steady and no one in their right mind would count on it.

"They'd like to see him next week." So they were anxious to sign him and he was only a junior. If Ohio were interested, then probably some of the other schools would be willing to look at Dick as well. "I told them he's a professional and not an amateur, but they didn't seem to think it would be a problem. I also told them he's never competed; that didn't bother them, either."

"John, do you think he'd leave Amy for something like this?"

"I don't think it would be a problem for him." The day he'd walked in on the kids in Dick's bed about six months ago they'd had a talk after Amy left quickly. Yes, Dick knew they were young, but they were being responsible and all of that. When John had started on the track of, "If you love this girl, you want to make sure nothing bad happens to her if you can help it", Dick had answered calmly.

"I never said I loved her. I like her a lot but I'm not in love with her or anything. I don't want to hurt her, but it's not like we're going to get married."

That had taken some wind out of John's sails. "And does she know this?"

Dick shrugged. "She knows I've never said 'I love you' to her. I like her, but I don't think she's the love of my life."

"But you're sleeping with her."

Dick gave him a look like he was talking gibberish. "C'mon, Dad, you're going to tell me that Mom was the first and only for you? It's not like I'm using Amy—she knows I like her and she knows I'm not fooling around on her but I don't know where I'll be in five years and neither does she."

Dick was focused, he always had been. Amy was a stop along the way and while John believed that Dick was too basically decent to do anything to consciously harm the girl, he knew she thought she was in love with his son and that Dick seemed to have no intention of making any kind of commitment to her beyond high school. Sure, that was probably practical, but there was a coolness about it which bothered John.

John found the conversation disconcerting, to say the least.

A few months later Dick had been given the red carpet treatment at Ohio State, the current national champion for men's gymnastics. His grades were high enough to not be any kind of a problem and he'd been assured they'd see to it he would regain amateur eligibility so he could compete. With his background and training, he'd be up to speed with the kind of routines they would expect of him in no time.

Then he received similar offers from Penn State and the U of Michigan, all nationally ranked and all wanting to get in line for the latest potential gymnastics phenom and no one made a secret of the fact that Dick's looks wouldn't hurt, either. If that helped with the judges or the fans, then more power to him. They all agreed he could still do the modeling and fulfill his contracts with Lauren and Hilfiger—no problem, so long as he could fit in the training sessions and his classes.

The thing which surprised his parents wasn't so much that Dick might want college, it was that he said he might want to get his MBA because, while he loved the trapeze, he thought he might want to own a circus some day and he should know about that side of things—and get good at them.

* * *

"I'm worried about him and Amy, John. This just doesn't seem like him at all. And I furious with Donna allowing this and not saying anything. I mean, for God's sake!"

"He's fine, Mary, he's just fine. I'm not thrilled about this, either, but you know he's always been able to handle himself and he's never done anything to purposely hurt anyone in his life. I think he just sees this for what it is—a teenaged romance and at some point they'll probably move on." He kissed her cheek. "And if it hadn't been Donna, it would have been someone else giving them a place."

"It's not right."

"…It's fine and it's better than them going God knows where. At least they were someplace they were safe. And I suspect Amy probably feels the same way that Dick does—more or less. If he's going to follow through with those offers and go to college, they'll be spilt up anyway."

"Yes, but…" She stroked his arm. It was late and they were in bed. The incongruous thought occurred to her that her sixteen-year-old son might well have been doing the same thing this evening. "If Dick goes to school, what about the act?"

"We can look for a fill in."

"No one can do the quad. It will mean a cut in pay."

"I know, but we can't hold him back, Mare. We'll be fine and so will he."

TBC"

9


	5. Chapter 5

**Two Roads Diverged**

**Part Five**

**Three Years Later-Nineteen**

**Path A**

Okay, so it hadn't been the best year of his life, but he was trying to look on the bright side, stay upbeat—complaining was boring and who wanted to be a downer, right?

He'd agreed—reluctantly—to go to Hudson University to major in business. No, he didn't want to but he figured he owed Bruce at least that much and, who knew? Maybe he'd find out he didn't hate it as much as he knew every cell in his body was going to hate it.

It even started out all right. It really did. The first day on campus, during the registration part of orientation, while standing in this incredibly long line, Dick accidentally stepped on the foot of the person behind him. Turning around to apologize he was face to face with a pretty strawberry blonde.

"Lori Elton, glad to meet you and don't worry about it, I'm fine."

"Dick Grayson, sure you're okay?" She nodded, smiling and she was very pretty when she did that. Not as pretty as Donna or Barbara, but certainly pretty enough. They exchanged the usual 'what's our major, where's your dorm, how's your room mate' stuff and Lori seemed pretty impressed that he had a place of his own in a boarding house with no curfew and his own room with an attached bathroom for his own use. Stuff like that was like gold for a freshman.

"So who do you know? I thought everyone had to live on campus the first year."

He shrugged—like he was about to tell her Bruce had made a call and in exchange for a lot of donated money, Dick was allowed to live on his own so tat Robin would still ply his trade. "Lucked out, I guess. So, have you had lunch yet?"

That was on track pretty fast. He liked Lori; she was fun and didn't hang on him like some girls did. She pretty much let him come and go as he wanted and—okay—she complained sometimes that he was never around or never seemed to answer his phone, but let it drop most of the time. She wasn't even freaked when she found out who was paying Dick's bills since the Elton family had some serious money, too. No, not as much as Bruce, but they could hold their own with you basic, run of the mill rich folks. That made things easier; it was a pain to always either pretend like he was just like everyone else on campus or that he knew the best restaurants in every major capitol on the planet. Hell's Bells—he wasn't impressed by that garbage, but he knew about stuff most college kids had barely heard of and that got tired after a while. Lori understood what it was like to be a 'have' in a sea of 'have nots'. It sounded like paradise, but in fact it was simply awkward.

He also like, he really liked the fact that Lori wasn't opposed to (and even encouraged) things between them to move along nicely and faster than Dick could have hoped.

Okay, admit it—he was sort of embarrassed that after all he'd done and been through, he was probably the last virgin in his high school or in his group of friends. Except for Wally, of course. Thank God that burden was finally lifted.

So things were looking pretty good at Hudson except for the fact that he hated everything about his classes. Everything. He hated the course work. He hated the books he had to read. He hated the assignments. He hated the subject matter. He hated the smug teachers who assumed he'd ace their classes because of growing up around Bruce and Wayne Corp. He hated the deadlines and what he saw as make work. He hated that there was no one he could talk to about what he had Robin doing because all he could do was call the other Titans on the phone and it wasn't even a secure line. He hated that Robin was reduced to working on cases like dorm robberies and very minor drug busts in dorm rooms.

He hated that he was wasting his time here. It took him almost two and a half months, but when he went home for Thanksgiving, he screwed up his nerve and broke the news to Bruce that he'd finish out the semester and then pack it in. He was dropping out. His mind was made up an he'd like to do what he'd said a couple f years ago; he wanted to either travel or get a job and see where he was in another year or two and make some decisions then.

Well, y'know? Bruce actually took that pretty well. It seemed that he'd suspected as much and was almost expecting it sooner or later—well, maybe he was expecting it later, but he took it pretty well, all things considered.

During the Christmas break, after the exams, Dick kissed Lori goodbye with few regrets on either of their parts and moved his stuff back to the Manor. He was feeling pretty good about this new phase, as he thought of it—he was back where he sort of belonged and Robin was back at work, dividing his time between Batman and the Titans. This was good. He was home, the thing with Barbara looked like it might have some potential and every time he thought of the possibility he might someday actually be in a bed with her made him silently thank Lori—God, the idea that he'd be a fumbling amateur around Barbara—Barbara!—like some wet behind the ears kid was too embarrassing to think about.

And then, as they say, the damn shoe dropped.

The Joker.

He and Batman were about to collar the lunatic again when Joker whips out a pistol and manages to hit him in the shoulder—well, through the shoulder if you want to split hairs. It was pretty bad, not life threatening, but bad enough.

And that's when things started to go down the plughole.

A couple days later when he was still in bed because he got dizzy when he stood up and with his shoulder still heavily bandaged, Bruce came up to his room, studied him like he was a bug under a microscope and announced that he was taking Robin away from him for his own good.

Frigging excuse me? He'd argued, ranted, cajoled, pleaded and knew that he was wasting his breath. Bruce wouldn't be budged no matter what. He had it in his head that for Dick to be doing something he'd been doing since he was nine years old had suddenly become too dangerous and so, for his own good, that was that. No more, go find something else to do with his life.

Like what?

He could go back to the circus and fly fifty feet above the dirt without a net.

He could work in the mailroom at Wayne Enterprises.

He could flip burgers.

He could apply to be a cop but since, of course, he didn't have any official experience he'd be turned down.

With Alfred watching, helping and helpless to stop him, he packed a few things, some basic clothes and moved to his room in Titan Tower. He didn't take anything Bruce had given him and he made it clear that the only money he'd use was his own, nothing from the man who was, in all practical terms, his father. If Bruce wanted to cut him off, fire him, than fine. He could go to hell.

"Three weeks now since you changed addresses and no word. In a pout, are we?"

"Barbara?"

"Ah, the world's second greatest detective scores another bulls-eye. …So, are you going to tell me what's going on?"

"Like you don't know? He fired me. I'm gone—well, actually he fired Robin and I can do whatever I want so long as I don't mess my hair or break a nail in the process."

"Sounds like an exaggeration to me. Are you going to tell me what really happened?" Silence. "C'mon, Dick, I've known you for ten years—and I've known him even longer. What did he say?"

"…That he didn't want my getting killed on his conscious and so he was retiring 'Robin' to protect me. I was flying on a trapeze without a net when I was four, I'm a third degree black belt, I know a dozen different martial arts and I've dealt with—and bested—the top criminals on the planet and a few who live beyond that and _now_ he decides it might be dangerous? This is bullshit, Barb—there's some other reason he doesn't want out, but firing me because he's worried? I mean, c'mon. He wasn't worried when I was nine, it's a little late to start now."

"But he's always been worried about you—you know that. My God, the time you were in that coma he sat beside your bed for four days waiting for you to come out of it. He wouldn't sleep, Alfred had to bring food to the room and practically force feed him and…"

"He's brought in another kid to be Robin. A street punk he picked up someplace. He didn't even wait for someone who knew what they were doing, the kid is completely green and he's starting from scratch with him."

"No—he isn't."

"Call the Manor, Barb. Look, I'm going to get away for a while, so don't worry about me. I just want to clear my head by myself."

"What about Kory—is she going with you?"

"I said 'by myself'."

"How will I get a hold of you?"

She heard the ghost of a smile. "Don't call me, I'll call you."

* * *

"How the hell could you do this to him? What were you thinking—_were_ you thinking? About him, I mean, instead of yourself for a change?"

"Barbara, calm down. I did what was in his best interest, whether he wants to believe that or not."

"Bull—you did what was in your best interest because you're too much of a damn coward to tell him you're worried about him or to trust him to know what he's doing because he's not the Great God Batman. If anything happens to him now you can blame him for it, but you know something? That's bull, too because you drove him to whatever he has planned and you can just damn live with it."

She was furious, mad clear through at what Bruce had done, at the stupid, thoughtless way he'd treated his own son—or as close as he was ever going to get to having one at the rate he was going. Dick loved him and that, more than anything was the knife through his back, the betrayal, the lack of faith, the belief that he needed protecting because he couldn't take care of himself. After everything he'd been through, after the death and pain and incompetence and abandonment he'd endured to be thrown out because of Bruce's inarticulation and in ability to say what he meant and felt—Christ!

* * *

"Master Bruce, where do you wish Master Jason settled?"

"Dick's room is empty."

"…I would prefer not, sir, if you don't mind. There's a small chance he may want it again one of these days. Or so one may hope."

"…Was there anything else?" Bruce was giving Alfred the Bat glare. It was being ignored; he'd seen it too often to be intimidated by it.

"Do you recall when Master Dick first came to us? Those first few years? He was such a bright presence here; he lightened the very air when he came through a door, the rooms bounded with the shrieks of laughter and the teasing. How long has it been since you've heard him laugh?"

"…"

"Perhaps you may wish to consider the cause for that loss, if you should find the time."

* * *

**Path B**

School was going all right and Dick was a happy young man; happy with his classes, happy with his friends, happy in the gym. Amy still wrote to him and they hooked up whenever they were in the same place; he'd gone to see her backstage when Ringling Brothers had played a week in Columbus and they'd had a nice reunion. Smiling, she said she'd always wanted to see a college dorm and so he obliged her, both of them there more as friends than lovers though they both knew she would stay with him while she was there for old times sake. They parted at the end of the week with good feelings between them and no strings, though they joked about being pros and having to play out the week's full run. They did, with her going back to the arena for performances, then coming back to the campus. She watched him compete against Michigan in Ohio's home gym and kissed him when he won both the high bar and the vault.

They were still good friends, though they both knew that was all they'd probably end up being to each other, though her mother would have liked more. Dick's mother had breathed a sigh of relief when he'd told her they had agreed to see other people, however.

Dick admitted, because he was basically honest with himself, that Amy was still in love with him and he didn't return it. They were friends and sometimes they still slept together, and that bothered him a little, but, well, there it was. He was human and they had fun together. If she saw something more, it wasn't his fault, was it? Really?

"I swear to God, Grayson, I don't see how you get everything done. You're like robo-student or something."

Dick looked across the lunch table at Mike Belson, one of the senior gymnasts. He'd finally decided to go with Ohio State's offer and while it wasn't easy balancing classes, workouts, occasional modeling sessions and sporadic touring to play the family act during school breaks, he was keeping his head above water so far. Barely. He just wasn't heavy on down time lately. The package he'd been given was for almost full tuition, 85 of his room and board and a stipend he could use for books and stuff if he agreed to help coach some local kids in gymnastics eight hours a week. He was majoring in business, like he'd planned and so far, so good. He was a sophomore, he liked the school and he liked most of the guys on the team. He was Dean's List and God knew he didn't get anywhere enough sleep. Oh, and they'd won National's last year with Dick adding a win on high bar to the team score. The whole routine was good, but the quad blew them away every time. The first time he'd thrown it in a dual meet against UCLA, there had been a twenty-minute judge's conference to determine if the move was even legal. The deciding factor had been when Dick had offered to throw it again, and yet again to prove it wasn't a fluke and he could hit it pretty much whenever he wanted. There were some grumbles about 'cheap acrobatics and theatrics', but it was finally approved and named 'the Grayson' since he was the first to do it successfully in a sanctioned meet.

And he just had so much fun throwing it. He'd wind up, get the speed, release, make the four and a half turns, and stick the landing with his arms up and this big smile on his face like—"Yeah Wasn't that just so cool?" He'd laugh, wave to the crowd, hop off the platform, sit down to wait for his score and he was just so having a ball that it carried the audience along for the ride.

That had led to a couple of interviews with both the local and a few national papers along with a couple of news agencies and a call from Sports Illustrated wanting to do a follow up to that article a few years ago. Used to dealing with this type of thing since he was four, he was at ease and charming, winning over the crowd, the judges, the other teams and the reporters. His own ingrained basic modesty helped, too, allowing him to fit in with the other athletes and not cause too much resentment.

Needless to say, his scholarship and place on the team were a lock.

The daily workouts were tough, though, even with his background and he'd taken some crap at first about being circus, especially when the others found out he'd never even competed at the high school level but when they'd seen him throw his first floor routine and then practically spend more time in the air above the high bar than hanging onto it, never missing, no bobbles and sticking every damn landing, they warmed up pretty quickly and from then on he had friends.

There had been some trouble at first because of his looks, too—it turned out a couple of the other guys had him pegged as a pretty boy who'd maybe gotten the big scholarship for 'services rendered' to some recruiter or someone, if you get the drift. It was the kind of stuff he'd heard before, especially when you put it together with male model thing, but after a couple of days they seemed to clue in that he was solid and his talent and training were what had gotten him the spot and anything else didn't matter…and hadn't happened, anyway.

Besides, he was always having such a good time that people wanted to be around him. He was fun, he was funny and he was damn smart beneath that. No, he wasn't a Pollyanna or anything stupid like that, he just had this confidence about him, like he knew what he was doing, where he was going and was going to get there so why break a sweat about the small stuff and while he was getting there he might as well have a good time.

"So, you going to Steve's party tonight?"

"I have to finish a paper."

"F'Chrissake, Grayson, take an hour off, why don't you? You know what happens to boys who are all work and no play?"

"It will make me a dull fellow?"

"Who never gets laid."

"Damn, Mike—I didn't know you cared."

He stood up, slinging his pack over one shoulder and picking up his tray. "...Deeply. I'll pick you up at eight and none of your 'I have too much work to do' crap. Be ready."

Ten after eight Mike knocked on his door. "You ready? Damn, do you have to flaunt that 'I'm a hunk model' thing'? Some of the rest of us would like a chance with the ladies for a change."

"Yeah, right." Dick was wearing a shirt they'd let him keep after a Lauren shoot a month or so ago, the heavy silk crepe one, a deep wedgewood blue that brought out the cornflower color of his eyes. Paired with an old pair of Levi's, faded and just tight enough to still be comfortable and the look was killer. The thing that really made it work, though, was that Dick was unconscious about the effect he had. If there had been the slightest hint of arrogance it would have come across as affected. As it was, it just read as though he'd thrown on whatever he'd come to that was clean—which was, in fact, the truth.

And it worked very well.

Fortunately for Dick, the other guys on the team had discovered fast that he had almost no ego, was generous with his help and advice and easily took a back seat to the other team members. He was there to get his degree and the gymnastics thing was just his ticket to the goal, not the point of his being there.

The party was over in one of the student apartments and was your typical student get-together. There was a keg, some cheap wine people had brought, popcorn and chips to munch on. The music was a little too loud and the place was crowded by the time they'd walked the half-mile. Dick got a couple of beers, handed one to Mike and started to wander around the place to see who was there. He greeted a few of the team members and their girlfriends and allowed himself to be maneuvered to a seat on the arm of a couch where a couple of girls—who knew the gymnastic team had groupies?—were trying for cool and failing badly. They actually asked if they could feel the muscles in his arms. God. It was nice to be popular, but c'mon, y'know?

He finished his beer, smiled and excused himself to get another—anything to get away. He was leaving tomorrow for Spring Break and was looking forward to just kicking back on the beach, spending time with his parents, hanging with the circus people and not thinking about practice or papers or publicity or any of that. A few days all to himself with no one on his case, that was what he needed right now.

Heaven.

* * *

"Dick called while you were out. He's fine; he got a reservation after his last class on Wednesday on the 2:30 flight. He should be here at 6:40."

"Good. How did he sound?"

"Tired."

"He has to know about the house."

"…He doesn't have to know yet. Let him relax for a few days, have a nice dinner with everyone and he'll find out when he has to."

"John—if he thinks we're being forced to sell because we can't pay the bills…"

"…Without him to anchor the act he'll leave school. We've been over this before. We'll move in with your parents if we have to—we can fix up the garage apartment your father used as an office and we'll be fine."

"But…"

"This isn't his problem, Mary. We'll be fine and he has enough to think about without this on top of it."

She nodded, he was probably right. Dick would be told eventually, but right now they could wait a bit.

TBC


	6. Chapter 6

**Two Roads Diverged**

**Part Six**

**Two Years Later. Twenty-One Years Old**

**Path A**

"It's good to have you back, my boy. More than you know." Alfred had placed the piece of homemade apple pie in front of Dick then, in an unprecedented breech of protocol, had squeezed his shoulder in restrained affection. "You've been missed. Greatly missed." Dick knew better than to comment on the tears in the old man's eyes, standing and hugging him before Alfred was embarrassed by the loss of his dignity and control. "I'd become concerned you might decide to move on with your life and leave you old friends behind."

"Not you, Alfred. Some of the others, maybe, but not you." They held the moment for a few more seconds then separated, composure restored to them both, Dick sitting back down in his old chair at the kitchen table and Alfred pouring them each a glass of milk. They took a few bites with their own thoughts. Finally, "Is Bruce around?"

"I expect him shortly. Will you wait to see him?"

Dick shook his head. "I have to be getting back."

Alfred gave an almost imperceptible nod; it was what he'd expected. "…May I ask back where?"

"I have a place. It's small—well, it's a dump, but it's okay for now." He stood up, picked up his jacket, ready to leave. "I'll let you know if I move or anything, though. I will."

Alfred followed him to the back door. "Is it close by? I know how you are when it comes to food shopping and I cringe at the thought of you keeping house for yourself; I wouldn't mind stopping by now and then to help out a bit…"

Dick gave him a smile, he knew Alfred was worried—had been worried since he'd taken off two years ago after the big fallout with Bruce and he knew it was unfair to the old man who'd shown him nothing but kindness. It had to be done though—maybe not the way he'd gone about it, but he'd had to get out and he had to do it that minute. If he hadn't left he would have, he would have…he would have done something he shouldn't do and so he'd gone without looking back. "Thanks, Alf, but I'm good. Maybe one of these nights I'll cook you dinner and you can see for yourself."

"Heaven forefend."

Bludhaven suited him and he was making enough to pay his bills if he was careful. Besides, he liked working a regular job, having people know him and greet him by name when they came in. He could just access the trust, the obscene amount of money Lucius had built for him, but that was a cop-out. He wanted to do this on his own without Bruce's money behind him and that's what the trust really was, no matter where the seeds had come from. Without Bruce—or his employee, the insurance money wouldn't have been enough for him to live on for more than a couple of years. Sure, that wasn't bad, but he wanted to do this by himself. He wanted to do this without Bruce or his parents or the Boy Scouts looking over his shoulder to see if he was screwing up or not. This would be his way or the highway and that's the way he wanted it.

That's what he wanted.

He wanted to make the city his own; to have Nightwing be identified with it as much as Batman was with Gotham or Superman was in Metropolis. A year or so, and he'd be there. Then even Bruce would have to take notice.

* * *

"He was here, wasn't he?"

Alfred had just handed Bruce a sandwich down in the cave. It was two in the morning and he'd just come in. Alfred suspected he'd purposely delayed tonight, purposely not stopped in the main house before going out so he wouldn't have to talk to the boy.

"You know he was, just as you likely know where he's living and what's he's doing. I suspect you could tell me the brand and color of underwear he's partial to if you so chose."

He took a bite, chewing as he studied whatever was on the monitor screen. It could have been Tomb Raider for all Alfred cared at that moment. "He's living in Bludhaven, using the name 'Nightwing' with a new, darker costume at night. He's working at a cop bar called Hogan's Alley five days a week, the lunch and dinner shift, leaving by eight. He's made basic inquiries about the police academy down there and will probably be accepted when he applies. He's stopped seeing Koriand'r and has started seeing Barbara Gordon. I suspect he's either sleeping with her now or will be soon. He's marginally active with the Titans but is mostly concentrating on getting settled. And he mostly eats take out. Any other questions?"

"I was wondering when you would be seeing him."

"He knows where I am."

"And you've established you know where he is as well. I would suggest you bear in mind that you are, at least nominally, the adult and the parental figure. You may wish to act on that fact."

**Path B**

"No, I understand. It's not a problem. Look, I'll go through with the ceremony and then meet you in Denver on Tuesday, okay?"

"That would be fine, but I feel so awful that we can't see your graduation, honey. You've worked so hard and done so well—I just wish there was some way we could work out the schedule somehow…"

"Mom, don't worry about it. I'll get some friends to take pictures and I'll tell you all about it. It'll be fine."

"But, sweetie…"

"I'm not upset, all right? I'm over it. I know a show is a show and a job is a job. Besides, with everything that's going on it's crazy here and we probably wouldn't really get to see one another anyway. I mean not much, so really, don't worry about it." There were some voices in the background, a pause then, "I have to go, but I'll see you next week. Bye."

Mary hung up the phone, close to tears. John looked up from the old lawn chair outside the trailer. He longed for his old overstuffed armchair back home which was kinder on his back. It was really too large for the small garage apartment they lived in now when they weren't on the road but it was the one thing he'd insisted on taking, no matter if they had to put it on the roof. The place was three or four times larger than the trailer they used for touring, but it was still just a converted two-car garage.

Dick's reaction, when he'd found out yesterday that they'd lost the house and were forced into bankruptcy because bookings were down was even worse than they'd thought it would be—and they knew it wouldn't be good. He'd sworn he'd quit school and rejoin immediately, that he didn't really need a degree and he was tired of school, anyway. He insisted he hated working with the gymnastics team, that the other members—whom he'd referred to the day before as his best friends—were a bunch of boring jocks he'd kill to avoid if he could. According to him, he hated his classes and had made a mistake in even going in the first place. He couldn't wait to quit, in fact. This was really a Godsend because he'd been looking for a reason to leave without hard feelings.

That was exactly what his parents were afraid he'd do. He was no longer a child, but he was still their son and they were still the most important people in his life. Period. He still called at least once a week, he still spent every vacation and school break with them and he still joined the act on the rare occasions he was free and could get to wherever the current gig was.

There had been a lot of back and forth in a series of phone calls ending with John finally driving over to Ohio State in the middle of the night from the current gig in Detroit, knocking on Dick's door and talking to him for two days. He'd followed Dick to his classes to see for himself how completely the boy understood the subjects and how highly the professors regarded him. Then he went to the daily workout in the gym, finally putting faces to the names he'd been hearing about for a couple of years now. Watching Dick go through his routines, John marveled at the level of expertise he'd achieved—form, amplitude, creativity—it was all there in spades. John first thought it was because Dick was his son that he seemed to shine so much brighter than the others, but it wasn't and he knew that. Dick always had that special spark which can't be taught, the one which made people turn around when he walked into the room, the one which made people want to be around him and befriend him. When Dick was young, back in the circus, he could wrap a crowd around his little finger with a smile or a gesture and it was obvious he hadn't lost the ability. When he was working the high bar, no one looked anywhere else, no eyes were on any of the other gymnasts and Dick never missed a single move, making it all look so easy you'd have thought your old grandmother could do a quad and land laughing the way he did.

The other young men listened to what he had to say, teasing back and forth like any group of friends or team mates, but clearly listening to his opinions and analysis of their combos and dismounts, their aerials and choice of vaults. He noticed that the coaches asked what he thought a couple of times, too and made a point of telling John that Dick was the best they'd seen—he'd done well by his son and should be proud. He could go all the way if he wanted—the World's, the Olympics—he was that good.

The second day they were sitting in the cafeteria having lunch when he decided to take Dick to task, lay the cards on the table.

"You're popular around here." Two co-eds had just come over to say hello and ask him if he was going to some party that weekend.

Dick shrugged, dismissing it. "It's a friendly campus."

"You still see Amy at all?"

"Sometimes. Not much." The last time they'd gotten together—a weekend last month in Toledo—she'd ended up in tears, saying she knew he thought of her as just a friend and fuck buddy and she couldn't handle it anymore because she still loved him. He really hadn't meant to hurt her, but it happened and he felt badly about it. Not enough to get back together with her permanently, but enough to feel awkward being in the same city she was. It would be a while before he wanted to get into anything again with her. Maybe he'd call her in a year or so.

"Your professors and you coaches seem to have a good deal of respect for you, as well."

"I guess." No big deal. "Where does the show go next?"

"Detroit, then Columbus, Cincinnati, Pittsburgh, Harrisburg, Trenton, Philly, then I forget…New England. Have you made any plans about this summer?"

Dick looked surprised. "The act." Of course.

"I think you should think about that internship you economics professor was talking about this morning. It looked like the money was decent and you'd make some important contacts for after you're graduated—which reminds me; have you started applying to grad schools yet?"

"C'mon, Dad. You know I'm rejoining the act. We talked about this—I'm leaving as soon as finals are over next week so I get the credits, then I'll drive to wherever the show is."

"Like hell you are. Maybe for a few weeks or a month this summer, for old time's sake, but after that, you're on your own. As soon as we hit winter break, your mother and I have decided to retire. This is the last tour for us."

You'd have thought he'd just told Dick there was no Santa Claus, Easter Bunny, Tooth Fairy; the sun revolved around the earth and the world was flat. Dick went completely still, taking in what he'd just hear, trying to make sense of the last sentence.

"But…what…?"

"You heard me and it's definite." John softened a little; he knew this was knocking Dick into the wings. "Look, Dick, your mother and I have been doing this for a long time and we're getting older…"

"Bullshit—You're barely forty and Mom is still in her thirties."

"And I've been flying since I was four, the same age you started. I can't count the shoulder separations I've had, the torn ligaments and tendons, the ripped muscles. For God's sake, Dick—it takes me an hour to get moving in the morning now, I want to stop while I can still do things and before I need a damn cane to walk up the stairs."

Dick stared at him. Of all the possible arguments he was prepared for from his father, this was the one that hadn't occurred to him. Ever. He'd always assumed that the act would always be there, that his own kids would learn how to fly, that he could always go back to it whenever he wanted. The house he could live without, but the act? The Flying Graysons retired? Christ. He'd try anything. "But what about money? What are you going to live on?"

"What? You're not going to support us? We'd just assumed…"

"…"

"Joke, Dick. Kidding. I've had some offers to do some different things. I can coach, I can work in the office, I know a little bit about how traveling shows run, you know. I've even had a feeler from Elton John—he wants to do a world tour and they figure I'd know how to do all the booking and know all the arenas. A show is a show, right? Your mother is even looking into us doing some entertainment work on cruise ships and that seems like it may be something which could work out—it's a lot easier on us than having to do the whole act and we'd still be gypsies traveling around. You know I can't stay in one place too long. I get hives."

"You're serious about this, aren't you? You're frigging quitting to keep me in school."

Dick always was too smart to scam. John knew he was on to the whole thing and didn't even bother refuting it.

There was no fighting this, Dick knew he could argue until he was blue in the face and his parents wouldn't budge an inch if they thought this was what was best for him. They'd make due if it would be to his benefit. If they had Kraft Mac and cheese every night they weren't eating Campbell's soup, that's what they'd do. Jesus.

He took a breath, eyes on the table, food forgotten. "In that case, I guess maybe I will look into that internship Wittburg was talking about." There was no reason not to.

"Tell me about it."

"Personal Assistant—or one of an army of them, anyway, to Lucius Fox, Bruce Wayne's right hand man at Wayne Enterprises. It's for six months with the possibility of permanent employment if it works out. Plus they pay grad tuition if I meet the criteria and they give time off—a leave of absence, to get my masters if I qualify."

"Sounds decent."

"Yeah, maybe."

* * *

Later that night John was back with Mary in the trailer. Dick would stay in school and so the act was put in mothballs for a while. It wasn't the end of the world.

"But you're sure he'll be all right with this?"

"He'll be fine, you know Dick. He always sticks the landing."

TBC

8


	7. Chapter 7

**Part Seven**

**Two Years Later. Twenty-three Years Old**

**Path A**

"I saw that article about you in the Times last week—interesting if not entirely accurate it would seem."

"You know how much I hate being interviewed. They make crap up; it's all garbage, Alf."

"Language, please. I must say I'm a bit surprised you've decided to throw your lot in with Master Roy again after everything that has passed between you over the years. And this new group; the Outsiders? I can't say I know if I like the sound of that. It seems a bit Cowboys and Indians, if I may say so."

Dick smiled, happy and glad to know how Alfred really felt as opposed to everyone else's semi-polite demurring comments. Barbara had rolled her eyes. Kory had half snorted, "THAT should last a good ten minutes." Donna had just said, "Oh, right." And Bruce had told him that with enough rope almost anyone could hang themselves. It hadn't been what you could call subtle. Or encouraging.

Okay, maybe he wasn't being overwhelmed with positive feedback, but at least he knew where he stood with everyone.

Of course he knew where he stood pretty much everywhere when you came down to it.

He was a cop in Bludhaven, a place on the list of contenders for armpit of the nation. In fact he was a rookie, the lowest of the low; he was pond scum. But, on the other hand, he was starting to make a dent in the corruption, had targeted a few of the worst offenders, was starting to make them uncomfortable and he was doing some good just as your average run of the mill, on the beat cop, too. That felt pretty good.

He liked his day job.

He and Babs were, well, they were something. They were friends, sure, but maybe they were more than that. Maybe they weren't, but either way he wished she'd get the bug about the wheelchair out of her butt and get past it. He was. He really was. He wanted her, he liked her, he wanted them to be an item in a major way and he could even see maybe coming home to her at night or dawn or whenever it was he managed to get home, peeling off whatever he was wearing, slipping into that big old bed she had and, well—you know—the usual. Several times.

He'd be happy to skip the warm milk and cookies, just so long as she was there and wanting him to walk through the door.

No, damnit, wait. That wasn't what he meant. He wasn't looking for Donna Reed or anything, but, hell—he just wanted to come home to her and eat dinner with her and hang out and sleep with her and not sleep with her and all kinds of other things he'd fill his mind with when he was on boring patrols and should really be paying attention to what he was doing.

Nightwing was having an impact as well. The local bad guys knew who he was and were afraid of him, which was the stock in trade he counted on. This was good. And he was doing the Outsider thing which he wasn't 100 about, but it had potential and was worth taking a shot on—and even if it all fell apart, he owed Roy that much, anyway. He owed him a chance.

Him and Bruce? Okay, that was as dysfunctional as ever but he had some hopes for the future there. There were some hints that things might start to be looking up and may actually change for the best. They could, occasionally be in the same room for more than ten minutes without coming to blows and once Bruce even called him to ask him to consult on a case he was having some trouble with. All right, Dick knew that was a lie, but it was still a gesture in the right direction and that meant Bruce was probably as upset about their estrangement as he was. It also probably meant that Alfred was behind it, but whatever it takes, right?

The whole thing with him taking Jason in still grated, truth be told. Sure, he never liked the kid who was pretty obnoxious most of the time and unpleasant the rest, but Dick still couldn't get past the idea that if he'd maybe helped the kid out, given him some pointers or something, maybe Jason wouldn't be dead. Yeah, yeah—maybe he would, but the 'maybe' in there was what Dick had a problem getting over and that sucked. That and the fact Bruce had appointed Jean-Paul to fill in as Batman really sucked a lot. More than a lot. It sucked tons and it was going to be a very long time before that stopped stinging whenever he thought about it. Sure—J-P had been killed and much later Dick had—way too belatedly—filled in, but damn.

Then there was the fact Bruce had actually adopted Jason. He'd filed the papers, changed his will, and started referring to the damn brat as 'his son'—the whole nine yards. That was what really got under Dick's skin. That was what really hurt beyond words.

In all the years he'd been dealing with Bruce, after all the crap he'd been through, all the pain and neglect and the years of being ignored unless he was the squeaky wheel or only being noticed when he screwed up—this what had hurt the most. This rated up there with his parents being killed and was, in its way, a much bigger betrayal and abandonment because it was intentional.

Bruce had over ten years to get around to filing papers for Dick if he'd wanted to but only bothered years after it was pretty much too late. Oh, sure, it was nice he'd finally decided it was time—when Dick was twenty-three years old, for Chrissake. How about calling the damn lawyers oh, say when he was twelve or thirteen and desperately needing a father? What would have been so hard about starting the paperwork when Dick was fifteen and he was in the middle of adolescence and wondering what the hell he was doing? The year he was floundering at Hudson, dropping out and questioning if he was doing anything worthwhile and wondering what to do with his life might have benefited by a solid show of support like knowing the man who'd raised him thought enough of him to make him an actual part of his family, but…

Water under the bridge, Grayson. Get over it.

So—now he was a cop. He was Nightwing. He was—sort of—seeing Barbara when she would let him and he was making progress in his work, in both jobs, and he was getting closer to being close to Bruce again—or as close as one could get to Bruce, that was.

And the adoption thing—that was weird.

So now he was Bruce's legal son and heir. He was probably going to have to step into Mr. Wayne's shoes over at the company headquarters one of these days ad he dreaded that enough he tried not to think about it. Pray God Lucius was still alive and kicking when it happened. Either that or the current crop of young hotshots lived up to their PR.

That would b nice; then he could back burner the whole idea for another few years.

**Path B**

"If I'd known I'd have found some way to pay off the loans."

"That was a couple of years ago, Dick, let it go—you've made up for it and then some. I mean, my God—a new house, a new car, a trip to Japan and enough Christmas presents to sink a ship. Give it up, Dick; you've made amends and then some."

"…But I could have stopped it happening if I'd had any idea. I could have given them the money I made with the stupid modeling or something. It would have been enough to make the payments…"

"And if they'd wanted you to know about it they would have told you, right? They knew what you'd have done if you thought they were going to lose the house—I'm telling you, get over it."

"But if…"

"I swear, you're still too Catholic and this guilt thing you have going is getting really tired. I mean, you've been going on and on about this for two years now and…forget it, will you, please?"

"Yeah, but…"

"For the first time since I've known you, you're boring me. Drop it, will you—please? Now?"

Dick was sitting in his office, door closed and talking to Amy who was in the Midwest this week with Ringling Brothers; they spoke fairly often, maybe once a month or so and were pretty much current with one another though they hadn't actually seen one another in about a year.

The summer internship had turned into a full time job, Dick worked with Lucius Fox directly, was getting promotions and raises faster than anyone in the company ever had before and things were looking pretty good. He had left for a year or so to finish his masters and doctorate over at Gotham U—taken off a year to really crunch the thesis and dissertation then came back to his promised position as a (very) junior vice president in charge of scouting new properties and ideas for the company to develop. Obviously he'd have a lot of eyes looking over his shoulders for a while, but this was about as fast as the fast track got and he was enjoying the ride for all it was worth.

He'd discretely asked around when he'd first arrived, wondering if Wayne's son—or sort of son—was being brought into the company and groomed to take over at some point. He'd been told, again discretely, that the supposed scion was a lightweight, a screw up and just like Daddy; always after girls and brainless but so rich he had to be listened to, or at least deferred to. His main interests seemed to be trying to kill himself on motorcycles or ski slopes, something he might well succeed at sooner or later. Plus, there seemed to be some bad blood between father and son, some kind of falling out, so don't hold your breath about meeting the kid any time soon.

Fine. Whatever. Just asking. He'd only recently met Wayne himself and his first impression was that he was an idiot who, luckily for him, had the sense or luck to hire some good people to do his work for him. His second impression based on nothing more than gut feeling, was that he wasn't as dumb as everyone seemed to think and caught a lot more than he missed at meetings. Or maybe not.

Dick was also about to give up living in a semi-crummy apartment to save money. The salary Wayne was paying him was enough for him to move to someplace reasonably decent, if not exactly the Taj Mahal. He was seeing Kim Peters, another young Turk—as they were obnoxiously called and while he didn't have plans to propose any time soon, they got along pretty well. She was, if possible, even more ambitious than he was and understood—while trying to find out what he was working on—when he was late or couldn't see her for a few days or weeks at a time. He didn't put it past her to swipe an idea or two from him, so he kept some distance between them. He liked her well enough, but…

So that was his life at the moment. He worked hard, coming in early and going home late. He traveled whenever they asked and never complained—at least out loud—when he was in Tokyo over Christmas or in London for his mother's birthday.

The new apartment, a duplex in a fancy high rise was right for when he had to entertain co-workers or clients and if he didn't have as much time as he'd have liked to work out and take a mental vacation on the high bar the way he'd done since he was a child, well, the sacrifices were worth it to make sure his parents would never have to go through the stuff they had to allow him to build his current life. That was a big part of why he did what he did—it always had been and his parents had been after him to stop worrying about them and do what he really wanted, though he insisted he was—this was what he wanted and he was happy.

They didn't believe him.

* * *

"I spoke to Dick this morning."

John looked up. They were on another of the Norwegian Cruise Lines ships; currently sailing the waters off Alaska on a summer cruise. They were part of the entertainment staff; performing an acrobatics and tumbling routine three times a week while the ship was on the water. They'd been doing this, on one ship or another, for a couple of years and liked it well enough. It wasn't flying, but the pay was good and steady and they were working. This was nothing to sneeze at in their line of work. "Oh? What did he have to say for himself?"

"He said he got another raise and that Mr. Fox thinks he'd be good working on some big project Mr. Wayne himself is involved in. He thinks that if he does well, it could be important to his career."

"Hmm." He turned the page of the paper he was reading.

"Meaning?"

"…Did you ever think, when he was growing up, traveling with us, performing with us, he'd ever end up working in behind a desk in a corporate office five or six days a week?"

"Well, no, but he made his own decision to study business and get his degrees. You know that. He's been pretty focused on that since he was in high school."

"I suppose."

"For God's sake, John, say what you mean."

"You know as well as I do that he did that for us, so that we'd have security, especially after we lost the house."

"Of course I know that, but he seems happy. You know how proud he sounds when he's on the phone."

"Mary, how long has it been since you've sat down and had a real talk with him? The way we used to when we were driving from gig to gig?"

She sat down on the lounge chair beside him. They were on the staff sun deck and pretty much alone at the moment. "So what do you think he'd rather be doing?"

"Probably anything else. You do know he's set up a trust fund of some kind for us through his company, don't you? I got a statement a week or so ago; there's over two hundred thousand dollars in it and it's growing every month. I think it was sent to us by mistake somehow."

"The son taking care of the parents?"

"So it would seem. What do you want to do about it? You know he won't listen to us."

"I know that. I'll think of something."

* * *

"Mr. Grayson? There's a Ms. Skellar for you? Do you want to take the call?"

"…Sure, put her though, Karen."

"Mr. Grayson? THE Mr. Grayson, youngest vice-president in the Wayne Organization and possibly the free world? Might you be free for lunch today?"

"Where are you, Amy?" He was smiling big at the sound of her voice. It had been a crappy morning and this was a fabulous surprise he was hoping would rescue him from another damn contract review.

"The lobby."

"Two minutes. I'll come down."

* * *

"So Ringling is doing the North American tour—you know the routine. We're here through Sunday night. You are coming to see the show, aren't you?"

"I'm busy, but I want to see you—maybe tomorrow? I have dinner free—oh, shit." He was checking a palm pilot. "Wednesday is better, maybe we could do breakfast? Seven?" Damn, she looked good. She was still pretty, of course, but she was more…something. She was more womanly or something, less like a girl now. She was a grownup and it looked good on her.

Her jeans still fit the way jeans are supposed to fit but usually don't and she had this tank top on that was modest enough, but—damn. He was suddenly very conscious of the formal suit he was wearing—navy blue, double breasted; he looked like a prig and he knew it and that wasn't the way he wanted to come across to her. He wanted to be like she used to think about him but better; more handsome, smarter, more successful and everything else that was good. He'd seen the look on her face when she'd first spotted him, the flicker of disappointment and it had bothered him.

"The last show ends at eleven-thirty and then I have to clean up for the night. You know what a touring schedule is like—when was I ever up at seven?" She looked at him, sitting there in a beautifully fitted suit and lace up leather dress shoes and with an obviously expensive tie knotted around his neck. He looked like just what he was; a young executive on the way up, smart, confident, maybe a little arrogant. The Dick she knew wore old jeans and tees with sneakers and no socks. He laughed and wasn't ever serious about anything unless he was thinking about his performance. His hair was what bothered her the most about him; it didn't look like him. The Dick she knew was always having to push his hair out of his eyes and would let it grow long enough he had to tie it back sometimes. This looked like he trimmed it every two weeks. Not a strand would dare blow out of place or allow itself to be mussed. She idly wondered if it stayed that neat when he made love. And he looked like even if he decided to laugh it would be a considered decision and not the way it used to be, with his eyes lighting up and that 'gotcha' smile on his face making everyone in earshot join in.

Now he looked like he didn't sweat or like he had his underwear pressed or something.

"Brunch?"

Dick Grayson wanting her to join him for brunch? Cripes, this was the official Twilight Zone. "Maybe you could come to the show when you get off work."

He nodded, looking a little relieved. "Okay, I'll have my secretary get tickets and…"

"I'll leave your name at the box office. Bring a friend if you want." God, he was so damn stiff. He didn't even give her a real hug when he saw her waiting for him. What the hell had happened?

"Good, thank you—so shall we get lunch, catch up?"

His cell rang, he answered, listened for a moment. "I'm really sorry. I really am, but I have to go back upstairs. Thursday brunch. I'll pick you up backstage at the Arena, okay? Eleven." He kissed her cheek and squeezed her hand before he turned back to the bank of elevators.

She noticed that his hands weren't calloused anymore.

* * *

"So we've been seeing each other for about a year now, but I don't know—she's all right, but I don't…"

"…Think you're in love with her?"

"…Pretty much." Dick took a drink of his water. They were up to dessert and Amy knew he worked too long, had no real life outside of his job, was worried about his parents having enough when the really retired and didn't have time to do anything about decorating his new place. He also wasn't in love with his supposed girlfriend and she wondered if he ever let his guard down any more. Everything he did seemed to be for some purpose now. Everything seemed planned, thought out, premeditated.

At least he was dressed down today, as though he'd read her mind. He had jeans on—designer, but they were denim, and a polo shirt with the little polo pony on his chest. When she'd teased, he'd had the grace to blush and admit it was a freebie from a shoot in the Hamptons last month. It was still an easy way to make money and Wayne Corp didn't care so long as it didn't interfere in his work or anything. "Do you ever fly?"

"…No. No time."

"Not even on a high bar? You seemed to love that when I saw you at Ohio."

"Yeah, well, that was for the scholarship and I never really…"

"Oh, bullshit. Of course you loved it just like you liked the guys on the team and the parties you went to with them and the girls who hung around and flattered you because of your modeling and gold medals. You used to spend an hour signing autographs if there were kids waiting or something."

"That was just because I didn't like to disappoint them, you know that—it was part of the job."

"A part of it you loved. C'mon, Dick, I know you too well to believe your line."

"It's not a line." He was getting mad and she didn't care.

"So you threw away doing what you loved and were good at to make a butt load of money so your parents wouldn't have to live on the streets, right? And in return you get sainthood and a live you hate surrounded by people who don't mean anything to you."

"I'm good at what I do now and I get along just fine with the people I deal with."

"Oh, good for you—you 'get along' with people. Big frigging deal."

He was about to throw back some retort which could have seriously damaged their friendship permanently but bit his tongue instead, took out his wallet—Cartier—and threw a couple of bills on the table. "I'll be at the show tomorrow and I'll come backstage later." Standing to leave, he kissed her cheek again and again, she noticed that his hands weren't just smooth, but it looked like his nails had been professionally maintained.

The show tomorrow was a problem but he knew that if he blew it off she'd be really angry with him and he honestly didn't want that. He had dinner with Wayne and Lucius after the meeting at five and then…ah, hell. He'd figure something out.

TBC

10


	8. Chapter 8

**Warnings:** Death fic. Language. You're warned so leave me alone.

**That Same Week. Aged Twenty-three**

Please note: Forget canon.

**Path A**

"You coming into the office this morning with me?"

Dick looked up from the morning paper. He'd spent the night at the manor after showing up for Alfred's birthday dinner yesterday. It was just easier than driving back to the Haven when he was that tired. "The office?"

"You know—that big place I go to every day?"

Bruce being sarcastic? Or maybe that was a joke. It was hard to tell. "To do what?"

"See how it works. C'mon, Dick, if you're going to be taking over one of these days you really should have at least a small clue."

Jesus. "…I guess so."

"Your enthusiasm is impressive."

"Well, Christ—it's not like it's really up my alley or anything; I'm a cop, remember? I was raised in a traveling circus and then I was Robin. It's not like I have a MBA."

"You could get one, you know."

And birds could fly out of my butt, too. "I could, but I really think you should name Lucius in charge in the event of your death and I could be a silent partner or something."

"A silent partner who would risk having the company being stolen out from under you if you didn't understand the way it works. In addition to that, you have over thirty thousand employees depending on you for their paychecks and benefits. You have a major obligation to them and their families and it would be nice if you kept that in mind."

"I know all that—I just completely stink at this, Bruce. Office jobs aren't my thing."

"Suck it up." He sipped his coffee—imported, from his own plantation, of course. "Get dressed, the car will be leaving in twenty minutes."

"Bruce, you're not getting this. I'm a cop. I like being a cop and I like being Nightwing. I contribute with both and I like that. It works for me. I don't want to do this thing with your company. I can't put it any plainer than that."

"The car leaved in eighteen minutes. Get ready."

Cripes.

Dressed suitably, he walked through the corridors of power he used to run through when he was nine. They seemed bigger then, now they just seemed serious and boring. He greeted the secretaries he'd known when he was a kid. He let them hug him and kiss his cheeks. He was smiling and cheerful and in most cases genuinely happy to see everyone he met. He was glad to hear tat Cindy's son's broken leg had mended and that Stan's wife was better after her surgery. Bruce walked him through several of the departments he'd have to deal with when and if he took over—legal, mergers, investments, charitable review, R&D and a few of the others. He had the uncomfortable of being the crown prince being paraded before his future subjects and hated it. And he was relieved when they got to Lucius' office so he could relax a little.

"If I didn't know you better, I'd offer you a stiff drink."

"If you offered, I'd probably take you up on it."

Bruce gave Dick a dirty look which Dick knew he'd have to answer for later—embarrassing him in front Lucius or something like that was a serious breech for Bruce but, hell—he didn't want to be here, he was happy as a cop and why couldn't Bruce see he had his own life and would like to live it, thank you very much. He didn't want to run a major international corporation. First of all he knew he'd completely suck at it and secondly he flat out didn't want to do it even if he turned out to be fabulous at the job.

He wanted to be a cop—and Nightwing. He liked being a cop and Nightwing. This was what was working for him and…

Fine. He'd do it. He'd simply tell Bruce that this wasn't going to happen and he should get himself a new boy. It wasn't like this would be the first time they'd disagreed about something, wouldn't be the last and maybe this would help things in the long run. And it wasn't like Bruce had a problem replacing his Robins when it suited him. Maybe Tim would be better at the job, anyway. He was smart, he was more inclined to thinking in the box and he'd probably be great at it.

There, problem solved. If he were stuck in an office all day it would kill him, it really would. Tim could do this and he'd go home, back to his own life.

"So, let's have Janice order some lunch and we can discuss what we have to over something to eat. Does that sound good for you two?" Lucius was trying. You had to give the man credit, he was seriously trying here.

"Sure, sounds good. Sandwiches are fine, nothing fancy." Bruce was being accommodating today.

He nodded and went to the outer office, rather than using the phone. He was probably happy to get away from the knife thick tension between the other two for a few minutes. He left the door ajar; it had to be an accident since Lucius would never do that on purpose.

"I gather you don't want to go through with this?"

Y'think? "…No, Bruce, I don't. I'm sorry, I mean I really am after everything you've done for me and I know this is what you want and you've sort of been planning on this, but it's not…"

There was something going on out there, raised voices about something, which was unusual. Bruce liked his offices quiet, professional and he frowned at the breech. The voices got louder and he exchanged a glance with Dick who shrugged; he didn't know what it was, either but his inner alarms were going off. This wasn't right.

"The son of a bitch did it. He didn't have to but he went ahead and—Goddamnit, I just want to talk to him for two minutes. Two fucking minutes. C'mon, he owes me that much."

Lucius' voice, calm, trying sooth. "Let's you and me sit down and discuss about this. I'm sure we can do something which will…"

"I want to see Wayne. Wayne. Two minutes. I mean it. I came all the way in from Connecticut and he can frigging well spare me two fucking minutes after—he fired me! Do you understand that? I lost my damn job because of him. My family—do you realize I have to sell my house? My wife was crying this morning—that bastard owes me two damn Goddamn minutes…"

"Please, just come on into my office, tell me exactly what…"

The door was pushed violently open, slamming against the wall as the man burst through, Lucius and security right behind him. Bruce was standing, half sitting on the front of his mahogany desk, looking at the man. Dick was a few feet away, off to the side by the window.

"You wanted to speak with me?"

"You fired me."

Bruce had no idea who the man was. He'd never seen him, never met him. "What happened?"

"You thought I was stealing office supplies—a damn stapler, for Chrissake—a damn stapler! I had it in my briefcase to borrow. I was just borrowing it. I swear. I was going to bring it back but fucking security said I was stealing and…my wife was crying. You made my wife cry. You're a bastard, you know that?"

"I'm sure we can discuss this, would you care to sit down? If everyone would leave us alone for a few minutes I'm sure we can work this out. Please have a seat." His voice was soothing, calm and not working on the man.

"She was crying. Do you understand that?"

"Would the rest of you please leave us alone, if you don't mind? Dick? You, too."

"She never cries. Never. Even when her mother had cancer, she never cried but you made her cry."

"I'm sorry that happened. Let's talk about it privately, all right?"

"He's your son, isn't he?"

"Dick, could you please wait in the other room for us?"

Dick started to move, not even getting to take the first step, but his eyes were on Bruce when he should have been watching the man. He made a mistake and so did Bruce who was looking back, silently asking him to get out and let him handle this.

Neither of them saw until it was too late to react, even for them. The three bullets hit Dick point blank.

The man was disarmed in quick seconds, but two bullets hit Dick square in the heart. He had died almost instantly.

It turned out it was a plastic gun, the kind that doesn't show up on a metal detector and that he'd bought in on the street somewhere. Bruce, of course, had been his original target, but when he'd seen Dick, he'd realized that this would hurt Bruce more. The death of his son was something he'd never recover from, never forgive himself for and never get over.

And he was right.

* * *

**Path B**

The conversation with Amy at Brunch had really pissed him off. Where did she come off criticizing him? What right did she have to pass some damn value judgment on how he'd chosen to live his life? And for what? Because he decided, he realized that he had an obligation to his parents? That he could help them and did so? Because of him they had reasonable financial security. They'd probably never lose another house after he'd paid off the mortgage on the one he'd gotten them down and it was even down in Venice so they could still be with their friends. They had health insurance through the union he picked up the tab for. They could come and go as they pleased and do whatever they wanted.

They were set.

Sure, Amy had agreed, sneering, that they had all that crap—as she'd put it. They had a house and all that stuff he'd decided was so important for them and in exchange they were reduced to a small act on a damn cruise ship, just one step above dinner theater, for God's sake. They were headliners! They should still be playing the Garden and touring and vagabonding from gig to gig like they'd done for all those years e was growing up with them.

How had he missed the bottom line?—that was what she kept asking him. How he it gone right past him that what they wanted was to keep doing what they were doing and his deciding to go to college and break up the act was what had pulled the rug out from under them.

So what was she saying? That he should have not gone to school? He shouldn't have busted his butt for six years getting his degrees, working inhuman hours, going for a getting a job that paid him enough to take care of them, so they would be able to finally relax a little?

And who asked him to?

He announced it as an almost done deal—he'd been scouted by recruiters, they'd offered him some hotshit scholarship and he'd be an idiot to not take it. Of course they'd agreed, of course they'd supported him. Idiot—didn't he understand they'd tanked their careers so he could do what they thought he wanted? He'd tanked his circus career to make sure they'd be taken care of. What was this? The damn Gift of the Magi?

"So", Amy had said a bit too snidely, "let's review. You did what you didn't want to, put your life on a track in a job you're making the best of but don't really like to take care of your parents who were just fine and happy doing what they were doing all along. Smart move, Dick."

"That's simplistic. There's more to it than that."

"Sure, whatever you say." There was an angry silence. "And you dumped me along with the circus."

"That's not true." Yes it was, and he knew it.

"And you have some trophy girlfriend you don't like who probably makes perfect small talk and can cook dinner while she's finalizing some multi-million dollar deal."

"…She can't cook." Amy hadn't answered or even cracked a smile. "I'll see you after the show tomorrow, okay?" He looked upset. "Friends?"

"You know it, but you're being such an ass, Dick. You really are."

So the rest of the day was pretty much shit as far as work was concerned. Dick went in and pretended to be doing his job but really spent the time thinking about what Amy had said.

Was he really that stupid? For Chrissake, he was just trying to do what was right by his parents. He'd tried to protect them, make sure they'd be okay and if that meant he left performing, or traded it for gymnastics, hell—he was willing, more than willing to do that in a heartbeat. It wasn't like they'd ever complained, like they'd ever really wondered why he was making the choices he was. In fact, they'd supported what he was doing, insisting he not rejoin the act as often as he could have done. They'd been proud when he'd gone to Ohio, going on and on about how he was the first one in the family to get a degree, how smart he was, how he was using his brain for more than thinking up a new move or routine or lighting cue.

And it was all bull.

Sure, sure, he'd like college. He'd had friends, he'd fit in just fine, his grades were good and he'd won a ton of medals for the team. That had been great. He'd made money with the stupid modeling, too and no one complained about that. Okay, that had just been a part time thing and nothing to lose any sleep over if he lost a job to someone else. It hadn't really mattered beyond being a part time job and the money it could bring in, but he could have worked part time in the campus bookstore and he'd have been fine with that, too.

His job. His real job, the one with Wayne that was grooming him to become Lucius Fox in a decade or two so he could help Wayne's idiot son not run the family business into the ground. He liked what he did—he was good at it, anyway. He made a lot of money, he was well treated and people seemed to like him there but—oh damn, people had liked him all his life so while that was nice, it wasn't anything new.

The hell with this. "Linda? I'm going down to the gym for a while." His secretary nodded, barely looking up and went on with her typing.

Changed into shorts and a tee, his old grips in place, he chalked up and went over to the high bar. That was one of the really nice perks about working at Wayne—the gym was huge, fully equipped and state of the art. Evidently the boss had a thing about fitness and wanted to help his employees be in decent health.

The place was almost empty and he was glad to see it. He wasn't in the mood for small talk. Taking a hop, he grabbed the bar and started the familiar swings that would give him the momentum to begin the giants. It felt good, the air going past him, the gym spinning around him as he moved around and around and around the bar. Even with the grips he could feel the burning in his hands where the old calluses he'd had since he was eight years old had been. The last year or so they'd worn away, replaced with new skin, pink and soft and he hated it. He loved his calluses.

He changed grips, going around backwards, then tried a simple stalter, then two more. Three more giant swings and he wound up for a release. He nailed the flyaway; catching himself and moving smoothly back to the giants. His hands were hurting—he'd been away too long and so he started the swings which would give him the speed for a dismount. He knew better than to try the quad after all this time away, but he turned the double perfectly—thank God for muscle memory, landing in a stick, feet together, knees slightly bent to absorb the shock of landing, arms up.

Jesus that felt good!

"Not bad."

Startled, he turned towards the voice. "Mr. Wayne, I didn't know you were here. Sorry…"

"Don't be silly, the gym is here to be used. You were all-American in college, right? Ohio State, national champion in—was it the high bar two years running?"

"High bar and vault, one year in parallel bars."

Wayne nodded. "My son is a gymnast, not in your league, but decent." He moved over to the pommel horse. "Spot me?"

The man could move, particularly when you considered that he was in his mid thirties—he was strong, fast and had fair balance as well. Dick thought his flairs could have used some amplitude, but all in all, acceptable. He bobbled the landing, stumbling a little but not falling because Dick caught him. "You were from a circus family, right?"

"How did you know that?"

"It's my business to know who's working for me, especially when they make VP at twenty-three." He glanced over at the wall clock. "Aren't you joining me for dinner? I'd like to talk with you about some ideas I have."

"Yes, sir, you and Mr. Fox."

"Lucius had to see his daughter's school play. Join me and we can kick some ideas around."

"Um, of course, sir."

"You have a better offer?" He had that look like he'd take your spleen out just to see what your reaction would be if you gave him the wrong answer. Oh, screw it.

"I promised an old friend I'd see the circus tonight; she works the show but I'd be honored if you'd join me and we could talk there, if you'd like—sir."

He seemed almost amused. "The circus." He actually smiled. "I haven't been to a circus in twenty-five years. I'd love to."

* * *

Bruce watched Dick out of the corner of his eye as they enjoyed the show. He's suggested, perhaps unfairly, that they could use his skybox and knew Dick felt obligated to agree, removed from the action though it was. They could talk easier there, with less interference.

The show started on time, the house seemed like it was a good one, or so Dick said, and the show, the performers were on that night. It was a kick to be there.

The boy was having a good time, clearly, but it was as though he was sitting in his living room seeing family home movies. He was having fun, but he seemed wistful as well and that was an interesting thing to see in a kid as hungry as Grayson was. Bruce had been hesitant about taking him into senior management when he'd met him, though not so much because of his age; because he seemed almost too ruthless when it came to business. The kid was polite, well spoken and obviously intelligent but he was a shark and maybe too much so for Bruce's comfort. He wanted his people to play hard, but play fair. Hell, it was his name on the contracts, his name in the news and he hated having to apologize for some kid's screw ups done in his name.

This was a new side of the kid and Bruce liked it. He was happy, easy, relaxed and flat out having fun. He told Bruce stories about traveling with his parents, about the towns they'd stop at, the home schooling. He talked about being a carnie, a target for the townies, about living in a traveling village filled with friends and family and how much he'd loved it. He even told Bruce stories about the little house down in Florida where they used to winter. Oh, sure, he'd bought his parents a new one down there which was bigger and nicer than the one they'd had, but he still missed the old shack.

They had hot dogs Bruce knew he'd be tasting at least till tomorrow, funnel cakes and split a cone of cotton candy. They laughed at the clowns, smiled at the animal acts, with Dick assuring him that the animals, at least in the show he'd worked, were well treated if for no other reason than they wouldn't perform if they weren't and it was easier to work with a reasonably content animal than an abused one.

About two thirds of the way through the show Bruce realized, with a bit of surprise, that he was having a good time. This was the kind of thing he never did with his own son; never had, never would. The boy was too much like his mother for anything like this; he was too serious to unbend for something this frivolous or corny. He preferred to spend his time either reading or hanging out at the club in an effort to make sure he was with the right people, ones he could understand with no effort and who fit easily into his preconceptions.

He couldn't tell the boy about his nighttime things, either. Everyone in the house, except Alfred, thought that he was just an insomniac, that he took long walks to help him sleep, that he was on the computer till all hours. They didn't know about the cave under the Manor or that he was…well, they just didn't know. His wife assumed he had a mistress, his son was just glad he wasn't around.

"Your hands are bleeding."

"It's okay—the bars today, I might have overdone a little."

Bruce went over to the wet bar, pulling the first aid kid out from underneath. He found the antiseptic, some bandages and some antibiotics. He liked this kid, he liked him a lot and he had potential—an incredible amount of potential both to Wayne Enterprises and to Bruce personally.

"You know, if you'd be interested, I may have a proposition for you, some extra projects I work on by myself. I've been thinking lately that I might take on a partner and you may be who I've been looking for." He sipped his water. "I'd been hoping my son would join me, but he doesn't seem to be the right person for this. You may well be."

"What kind of projects? Things for the company?" He had Dick's attention, the boy was practically boring a hole in him.

"Personal projects I do on my own, not through the company."

"You mean like on weekends or evenings? That kind of thing or are you talking about a leave of absence or something?"

"Mostly evenings. Look, I'd rather not discuss it here. What do you say we get together on this tomorrow? I'll call down to your office when I'm ready to leave and you can follow me to my place, have dinner and go over what I want. Would that be all right for you?"

Crap, he was starting to consider maybe taking a leave from Wane Corp. so he could go back to the circus, maybe get the old Flying Grayson act up and running again if his parents would be interested. He wanted to get back to what he'd been doing before. He loved flying. He missed flying. Of course, it couldn't hurt to hear what the man had to say, could it?—never burn bridges and all of that, right? "Tomorrow would be great. I'll look forward to it—thank you."

"Good." The performers were coming out for curtain call, Dick looking thoughtful and sad as the applause swelled along with the music, the rings cleared and the house lights came up.

"I promised Amy I'd go backstage after, would you like to come? I mean if you have the time, that is." It was important to give him an out of he wanted to leave, wouldn't want to assume or anything.

"I'd enjoy that, if I wouldn't be intruding."

Dick just smiled and shook his head. "That was over between us years ago, don't worry about it."

* * *

"God, only you would bring Bruce Wayne backstage and laugh when he steps in elephant shit. Do you still have a job?" Amy was on the phone, Dick was in his office and it was three days later. The show had moved to Metropolis and they were back to the point of being able to enjoy each other without arguing—at least for now. Yes, okay, they'd played what they called their command performance at his place before she left, but it was more two old friends than anything else and they both knew it. It was good. They were good.

"Not only do I still have a job, but he wants me to do some special assignments working directly with him. He even had me out to his house last night to talk it over."

"Nice house?"

"The dozen or so rooms I actually saw weren't bad. The food was decent, his wife is a society stiff, his kid is a smart ass monster and the butler looks like crypt keeper."

"And…?"

"And it sounds interesting. I think I may do it."

"…I thought you were talking about maybe taking some time to tour again. No?"

"I'd like to, but…" His voice trailed off a little. "Maybe over the holidays or something, but not full time."

"Is this something you really want to do or is the money too good to turn down?" She sounded annoyed and that annoyed Dick. The silence got a little awkward.

"Look, I have a meeting in a couple of minutes, Amy. I'll call you soon, okay?"

"Dick…"

"Gotta go. Bye, Aim."

Yes, he was annoyed. Yes, the money was good, but the job itself—being Bruce's right hand man, his partner in special projects. Working right with him, being listened to by someone like him—damn. And the stuff he was talking about; anti-crime applications of Wayne technology, working hand in hand with the JLA to create special weapons and tools, custom software. God, it sounded amazing. He might even get to meet some of the members—God!—meeting Superman, wouldn't that be a kick in the ass? 'Hey, Supes, how's it hanging'. 'GL—long time no see, man, whatcha been up to?' 'Wonder Woman, hey, have I told you how hot you look in that costume tonight?'

Plus he'd be doing some seriously good work, really helping people, being one of the good guys.

Oh, yeah. Way cool.

* * *

**One Year Later**

After a year of working with Bruce Wayne on his 'special' project, Dick was completely in on the secret. In fact he was in, way over his head in, on a whole big bunch of great big secrets. And he was impatient. He couldn't tell anyone, of course, and his parents were wondering what Wayne had him doing that he had such trouble getting away for a week here and there. Amy just thought he'd become a corporate pod and his girlfriend had packed her overnight bag with the stuff she'd left at his place and found someone she could count on for dinner and a show more than once every two months.

He didn't care. He wanted to do this.

"I tell you, I'm ready. More than ready. I've been ready for months now and you know it."

"I know you've worked hard and I know you think you are, but you still need some more work on the patience angle."

"C'mon, Bruce. I've been busting my butt for a damn year now, you said so yourself and you also said this is a minor case. It's just a small time protection racket. All I have to do is go in, scare the crap out of the bad guys and hope it takes, right? And if it doesn't then we try again tomorrow. My grandmother could do this."

Bruce, suited up for the night, privately agreed that the job was small potatoes and that Dick; or rather Nightwing as he preferred to go by when in costume, could probably handle it on his own. The kid had been working well, working hard and he had the intelligence, the athleticism, the street smarts and the basic chops to do the job. It turned out, when he'd first broached the idea to Dick, that he'd had a run in with organized crime when he was a child and stopped them. The incident, seemingly minor at the time since it was diffused, had a profound influence on Dick; making him protective of the people he cared about. All Bruce had to do was teach him how to extend that caring and compassion beyond his circle of friends and family to an entire city. It had proved surprisingly easy and Dick was an apt pupil. Bruce was confident he'd chosen his partner well and that he'd do them both proud. They'd been going out together on patrol for about two months now and Dick was aching to prove himself solo.

He just needed experience and the only way to get that was to do his job, right?

"All right. Surprise them to get them off guard. Tell them…"

"I know, okay? I know."

"I'll be watching how you do."

"Of course you will." He had this, well, the English would have called it 'cheeky' attitude. He could be beating the stuffing out of a dummy—literally—and start laughing because it was so much fun. They'd be working out or sparring and he'd crack a joke. They'd drag in at four in the morning, beat, exhausted and he'd be wanting to order pizza or Chinese. He was plain, flat out fun to be around and Bruce knew a new lease on life when he saw it.

This was going to be one of the classic team ups—"Batman and Nightwing". Excellent.

An hour later Dick, well, Nightwing was just leaving the boarded up storefront via the skylight. He'd done his level best to scare the hell out of the bad guys, had thrown the jump line, swung up and away and was feeling pretty good about how it had gone. The baddies had seemed pretty weirded out by the new vigilante and, with any luck, this or maybe one more warning would be enough to do some good.

He heard the scuff of a booted foot about twenty feet away, hidden in the shadows and knew Bruce was waiting to ask him for a report.

"It went great. Oh, man, you should have seen the looks on their faces; I think this should do the trick—"

"Or maybe not." The roof lookout threw the small grenade and ducked behind the brick chimney. Dick stared for a too long moment then spun to dive off the roof just as the blast caught him. He didn't have time or the right position to thrown the line so he tucked and tried to roll with the crash landing that didn't come.

A strong arm, like steel, was around his waist, swinging him to safety in the alley. "Batman—Jesus."

"Get in the car."

The trip back to the cave was a strained silence. Dick was sure this was it, that he'd screwed up and was about to be fired, Bruce furious with himself that he'd let Nightwing out alone before he was ready.

Neither man was happy.

With the car parked, they both showered quickly, changed and met by the main computer console. Dick dejected and expectant, Bruce angry and determined.

"You know you could have been killed tonight. You were careless, unprepared and arrogant—you thought it would be a walk in the park and…"

"I know, clean out my locker. Is this where you use the mind wipe so I can't ever spill any secrets?" He didn't even meet Bruce's eyes. Crap—he'd really wanted to do this. It was more of a rush than turning the quad and he never thought he'd find that. And he really wanted to be one of the club. He loved the costume, the attention, the feeling he was helping people and that he made a difference. He wanted to matter.

And he'd blown it.

Bruce studied him for a long couple of seconds. "This is where we talk about what additional training you need so that it never happens again."

"Excuse me?" Yeah, right. Hard assed Bruce Wayne; Batman for Chrissake giving him another chance? And pigs can fly.

"Be back here tomorrow at eight. We'll review." He turned to go up the stair to the main house.

That was it? No reaming? He wasn't fired? It was this easy—go get some rest and we'll try again tomorrow? "Bruce?"

"I told you I need a partner and you're almost there. In a month or so you'll go out solo again and you'll be fine. Now, I'm tired and I have a Board meeting in the morning I need to be awake for—you'll be there won't you?"

"I'm not on the Board."

"Right. Well. Tomorrow be at the meeting. You need to get up to speed on everything at Wayne Corp if you're going to take over for me in a decade or two."

Dick just stared at him. What was he talking about?

"My son isn't going to do it—you've met him. You have what I'm looking for, I told you that. Now, get some rest for the morning." Dick was staring at him again; it was a disconcerting habit he really should break. "What? You'd rather run away and join the circus?"

"Uh, maybe." Wayne wanted him to become Batman's partner and now he's practically handing the keys to the company over as well? It was all a bit…much.

"You know, you could just buy your own."

Dick laughed, the tension broken. "I can't afford to buy a circus."

"Yet."

Fini

1/12/06

16


End file.
